


Forget the Devil (when God rolls over)

by Unuora



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21980356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: Aziraphale's been waiting for their happy ending. After the failed apocalypse he's been betrayed and terrified, but he's done waiting on God and Satan's gone. This was Aziraphale's perfect chance, and he was going to take it.Pity that Crowley had to go missing.(In a game of chess there's a lot more to worry about than just the king.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ive been working on this fic for... an unreasonable number of months, and i've just decided that i need to put it out there. i'm deeply nervous about this fic, but i hope someone likes it.
> 
> the child abuse tag will come up a bit more in the oncoming chapters, so just be aware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit 2/19/20; some pretty severe edits done (*´_ゝ｀) ]

The obviousness of Crowley’s feelings for Aziraphale was no secret to anyone besides for Crowley. He thought he was sneaky enough to have truly gotten away with it, but he hadn’t.

It scared Aziraphale to have this so obviously illicit love out in the open. He didn’t blame Crowley; he so obviously tried, and it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t be more subtle. It was an awful lot of charming and saving to be truly secret, but truly, that was what Aziraphale loved about Crowley. The way love filled him up so full it was to bursting.

Whenever Crowley drunkenly sprawled out on the couch Aziraphale would listen to him talking about how his ploy of tempting people to skip work went awry. (“Half the crowd in the station thought about all the rain pissing down and got on the train I wanted anyway!”) And whenever Crowley inched his leg closer, just so his socked foot touches Aziraphale’s, Aziraphale would pretend not to notice even though he feels the point of contact like an electric shock.

It was part of the Arrangement, he tells himself.

It’s not like it doesn’t bother him, archly ignoring Crowley’s casual touches. It’s not like he doesn’t want to reach back, to hold his hand after Crowley’s delicately handed him a cup of tea. It’s not like he doesn’t see the way Crowley stares at him sometimes, when he forgets, when he thinks Aziraphale isn’t looking. It’s not like Aziraphale doesn’t want to curl himself into Crowley’s arms for the next decade, century, millennia, until they’ve made up for lost time.

But it’s dangerous, so Aziraphale says, “That’s alright, dear,” when Crowley asks to drive him places; he says, “Another time,” when Crowley asks him up for tea; he says, “Oh, Crowley, you’re my dearest friend,” because he needed to, just once.

(And at that, Crowley had said, “Yes,” quiet, patient. “I know.”)

It’s dangerous, but Aziraphale is weak and he’s let this arrangement go on for ages. He instigates dinners and allows Crowley to tempt him into preposterous things.

(“Really, Crowley, what would I ever do with a cellular phone—it’s not nothing that appeals to me—”

“Nothing as truly fascinating as your stuffy books, but look—” a wily grin, and Crowley’s phone is being shoved into Aziraphale’s hands, showing a series of colorful apps. “Might wanna try one on a rainy day, yeah?”

And Aziraphale does, he loves Candy Crush the most, and after a couple of months of miraculous missing cellphones Crowley resigns himself to being the kind of person with two cellphones.)

When the world ends (or doesn’t) Aziraphale holds Crowley’s hand on the bus back to London. It’s not an act of resistance. It’s one of relief. He doesn’t how to say _thank God, I was so scared that this was going to be the end of everything, and we never had a chance to really live_ so when Crowley sits he offers his hand and Crowley, as always, meets him halfway. It’s ten thousand words compressed into the way Crowley traces the edge of Aziraphale’s thumb or the gentle squeeze that Aziraphale gives in response.

The first week of the rest of their lives go by and after everything they still have a schedule. Crowley comes to Aziraphale’s bookshop midafternoon, pretends he has a reason to be there. (Crowley’s fingertips brush the back of Aziraphale’s neck when he leans over to look at what he’s translating.) They drink. (Crowley gives Aziraphale his favorite wines, always, and sometimes he hovers, after passing a glass before sitting.) They talk. (About nothing, but sometimes Crowley takes off his glasses and sometimes the things he says mean something entirely different.) And at night Crowley leaves. (But not without a backwards glance.)

Aziraphale isn’t quite sure why they’re still doing this.

Well, he does, truly. He knows in every afternoon and night spent together with far too many words unspoken. What happened in Tadfield was a new chapter to an old war unfolding before their eyes that neither of them want to look directly at. It’s hardly fair to blame them, though, since the last time Heaven and Hell had ideas about war it reshaped the whole world.

The last big war, the very first war, was long ago before even Eden. It was the division of angels. The consequence of God’s creations growing wills of their own. And this is the important part: it was their uniqueness, their capacity to learn, that really inspired the war. But it was the same that inspired God to make humans, a flawed, fractious sort, just after the angels had torn themselves apart.

The mythos was that if an angel strays too far from God’s light they Fall to Hell. Yet, none of the angels who Fell spoke of it, and the angels who didn’t knew nothing of it, so little but conjecture was formed. The truth of it all is much more dangerous.

The truth is the bit that’s relegated to hallway gossip and dark, midnight thoughts. Angels weren’t supposed to gossip, but when it came to Falling it was a temptation. Because Falling was never a punishment, or a vengeful segregation, but a choice. It’s a phenomenon that begins when an ethereal creature such as an angel questions their place, a simple _perhaps I do not belong here_ , and it’s then that they find themselves among others who felt so different. What they do with themselves then it’s up to them.

Still, Falling is no such easy thing, and nothing to be taken lightly, and for much of the divine world this matter is handled by never discussing it at all.

It’s an easy thing to do when no angel has fallen in over six thousand years.

But, it is on the mind of many angels in the same way humans are so preoccupied with death. All it takes is something out of the ordinary, something terrifying, to bring it boiling to the surface.

“Ah, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, pouring himself and Crowley more wine. “Can you tell me about Hell?”

“You’ve been there,” Crowley says gruffly. He’s drunker than Aziraphale, as he often is, draped across the couch in an artful sprawl. “You saw the best of the best.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale tuts, considering. He takes a sip from his glass with the enthusiasm of someone who wants to be truly drunk and is not getting there fast enough. “I wanted to know what it’s like to be there—to live there.”

“It’s—it’s Hell, angel,” Crowley’s voice has gone tense. “Fire and brimstone, you know, the like—why are you—why are you asking?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and he almost doesn’t admit it, but to think if it was a surprise… “I was thinking—after everything with Heaven and—I’d like to be prepared if I don’t go back.”

“Don’t be so cavalier about it,” Crowley says sharply, putting his glass down. “It’s not a joke.”

“I’m not joking,” Aziraphale says softly. Perhaps he is still a bit too drunk and tired for this kind of conversation. Just last week they were both walking into their respective graves, and to ethereal beings like them a week is a mere breath of time.

Crowley flops back onto the couch as if exhausted. “Don’t talk about it like that.”

“It’s alright, dear,” Aziraphale says. He wonders vaguely if he should stop drinking, and he loses some time just watching Crowley lie sulkily on the couch, unmoving.

“It’s not some kind of—you’re not going to be able to step away from Heaven and forget about it,” Crowley says. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“I, ah,” Aziraphale says, frowning. “I didn’t think it—“

“ _Hell_ isn’t some kind of reform school for wayward angels,” Crowley says bitterly. “It’s no place for you. There is no one down there loving all of Her glorious creations.”

Aziraphale licks his lips, contemplating the angry line of Crowley crumpled into the cushions of the sofa. All angles, no sharp edges. “Except for you,” Aziraphale says lightly.

Crowley hisses angrily. It looks like he might say something, and then visibly reconsiders. “You’re not going to Fall,” Crowley settles on. “I won’t let it.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, dear,” Aziraphale asks, putting down his glass a bit regretfully. He’s barely buzzed, and here he was wishing to get truly smashed. “I just want,” a pause, “us to be prepared.”

“It’s—” Crowley’s voice is tight with tension before he cuts himself off. “It’s nothing,” Crowley says, “It’s not going to happen.”

“What if it does?”

“It won’t.”

“I’m not afraid,” Aziraphale says and watches as Crowley’s jaw clenches.

“Aziraphale.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says lightly. “Alright.” The tension in the air doesn’t quite abate after that. It’s quiet and awkward for a nearly unbearable amount of time, where Aziraphale feels too choked by discomfort to disrupt Crowley’s still and silent vigil. 

“If you were going to Fall for deceiving Heaven they would’ve by now,” Crowley says, eventually, face still turned away and inscrutable. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Perhaps it is fine now,” Aziraphale says, biting his lip before the words slip out of his mouth without his consent. “But Gabriel’s always said that I wasn’t fit for Heaven.”

Crowley sits up in a sudden burst. “ _Fuck_ that guy,” he hisses, “You’re the best thing about Heaven.”

“Oh, Crowley, thank you,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting in his chair. “It’s just, ah, he was perhaps correct occasionally.”

“No,” Crowley says, standing up to make an anxious circuit around the room. “That’s bullshit.”

“Come now,” Aziraphale says, laughing even though it doesn’t feel very funny. “It’s only a matter of time before failing orders puts me against the ineffable plan.”

“The ineffable plan that you understood better than Gabriel? Yeah, I don’t think so,” Crowley spits. “Heaven is a part of you. It’s your home.”

Aziraphale sucks at his teeth in thought. “It was yours, too,” Aziraphale settles on, “Once.”

“That’s,” Crowley says, his voice strong before he forces it down. “Different.”

“How?”

“For fucks sake, angel, whatever kind of _moral crisis_ you’re having here—“

“The Almighty gave me a sword,” Aziraphale says, “In the war, you know.”

Crowley’s face contorts for a moment. “Well, yeah.” A pause. “It was your duty,” he says, though it comes out a bit wrong.

“I killed my family and friends,” Aziraphale says and watches the way Crowley’s eyes flicker about his face, contemplative.

“It was a war, of course—that’s what _happens_ when there’s a war—“

“And what about you?” Aziraphale sets upon Crowley now, and his pacing stutters to a stop. “What if I had to fight you? Would you have killed me?”

“You were doing what you thought was right, Aziraphale! It was millennia ago.”

“Did you?” Aziraphale says, rising from his seat. He takes a step towards Crowley, feeling the edges of his mouth pulled flat. “Did you kill in the name of God?”

“Nuh,” Crowley says, taking half a step back. He sighs, putting a hand to his face. “No, I didn’t,” he says, quiet.

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale says, wry, “It was a different time.”

“I didn’t,” Crowley hisses. “I never touched a weapon.”

“And you Fell for it?” Aziraphale regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth.

“For the love of—“ Crowley swears, so loud and angry that Aziraphale jumps. “I was away building and I came back to a burning battlefield _._ I Fell for asking why, and spent my first year of Hell wrestling my way out of the bloody ranks of Hell.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, feeling chagrined.

“Yes, oh,” Crowley hisses, running furious hands through his hair. “Falling isn’t going to uncomplicate your relationship with Her, Aziraphale. It is not an act of fucking repentance.”

“I never said—I’m sorry for prying, Crowley, I shouldn’t have asked—“

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Crowley says. “What are you after? Are you guilty? Do you see corruption? Nice of you to join the rest of us.”

“That’s unkind,” Aziraphale says, trying not to feel hurt, “I am not so blind to be ignorant of the corruption in Heaven. I am just trying to be realistic.”

“Well, the Almighty isn’t going to throw you into Hell,” Crowley says tartly. “Put it out of your mind.”

Aziraphale fidgets in the uncomfortable silence until he’s sat back on the couch. “You have my word I won’t speak of it again,” Aziraphale says eventually, grimly dissatisfied when this does nothing to smooth out the tension in Crowley’s shoulders. “Come, sit with me.” Wordlessly, Crowley does.

“I’ll always be here with you,” Crowley says after a moment of sitting stiffly next to him. “You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says his voice a whisper quiet. He wordlessly offers a hand in apology, gratified when Crowley takes it. “I know that now.”

Maybe there’s something important left unsaid about a new war bubbling just beneath the surface, but neither of them can manage to speak of it. So when Aziraphale takes his hand back after a moment that moves so slow it seems to flow through molasses, Crowley’s there with some sweet distraction. The words might stick honey-thick behind his teeth, but if they’ve only got these moments they’ve best make it last.

It’s easy to listen. And it’s easy to realize that he doesn’t want it to end.

It’s a week after the end of the world and Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s wrist before he can leave for the night. Neither of them are drunk as planned, but the wineglasses in their hands had given them permission to lean closer than usual. And for Aziraphale, permission to be braver than normal.

“Wait,” Aziraphale says, “You’ll stay, right?” He had assumed he would. Aziraphale can no longer imagine a world where Crowley would leave.

“Oh,” Crowley says, and for a moment Aziraphale worries that he’s wrong. But then: “Of course, angel.” He says it with such understanding kindness Aziraphale quickly looks away lest he embarrasses himself. There’s little to worry about when he can feel the tremble in Crowley’s hand tucked in his.

“The bed—there’s a bed upstairs you may use since I know you prefer to sleep.”

“You’d be so rude to invite me over and then leave me alone?” Crowley’s smiling but it’s a shaky sort, nervous, and Aziraphale knows if he says no Crowley would forget the offer in an instant.

“I,” Aziraphale, licks his lips because his mouth has gone dry. “No, it wouldn’t do to do such a thing, you’re right. I’ll—” He tugs on Crowley’s wrist and up they go, each stair like a nail driving further in his heart, driving the breath from him with each step. By the top Aziraphale just stares, unmoored, at the person he’s brought here. It’s dangerous. If anyone knew that a demon and an angel are playing at being consorts, they would do more than die for it.

“Don’t think about it,” Crowley whispers, knowing. His eyebrows are cinched in concern. The gentle touch of fingertips he traces down the worry lines of Aziraphale’s face help more than he feels willing to admit. “Don’t talk about it. Just—stay with me for the moment.”

“Always,” Aziraphale agrees, closing his eyes with a sigh. He feels Crowley’s hand move away from a face, a snap, and when he opens his eyes again they’re both dressed in pajamas.

“Silk,” Aziraphale observes dreamily, running a hand down Crowley’s clothed arm. It’s a miracle in itself that he doesn’t smile at the look of consternation on Crowley’s face at the touch. “We’re sleeping, yes?”

“Yes.” Crowley’s voice sticks with anxiety but doesn’t protest when they get to the bed. He’s nearly silent as he curls into a comma, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but not to touch. There’s a moment before Aziraphale miracles the lights off where he feels he should say something like _come here_ or _we’re going to be fine_ or _I’m sorry_ but it all feels wrong.

Aziraphale pulls the quilt over them both and the silence settles upon them, heavy. Logically, he knows it’s necessary for sleep, but Aziraphale can hear Crowley breathing next to him, close, a million miles away.

“Can I ask you a question,” Crowley whispers after a moment, after a thousand years. Aziraphale has to stop himself from breathing a sigh of relief.

“Of course,” he whispers, just as quiet.

“Did you--” he stops, his throat clicks on a swallow in the darkness. “You were injured. Back in the war.” It’s not a question.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, turning his head to look at Crowley. His human form has such an unfortunate lack of night vision, but he can see Crowley’s eyes glowing amber in the dark. “Yes. How did you—how on Earth would you know that?”

“Saw,” Crowley says shortly. “Auras.” That brings Aziraphale up short. Crowley, like all other ethereal beings, can see auras, but Aziraphale’s injury is millennia old. It would be nearly imperceptible. Crowley seems to register this surprise quickly. “You said—well, you said you had the sword.”

Aziraphale sucks at his lip for a moment. “I did,” he agrees. “Near the end. Got caught in the leg. It rarely bothers.”

“You were a hero,” Crowley says, “The Almighty gave you a sword, and you fought with your life. You earned your place.”

“And She threw you into Hell for vying for peace,” Aziraphale says. Crowley’s face does something complicated before smoothing into calculated neutrality. “I know, but this time my decisions are my own to make.”

After a moment Aziraphale feels Crowley seek out his hand, and this time when silence settles upon them it doesn’t feel so heavy. After that, with the warm touch of Crowley’s hand in his, sleep comes easy.

But in the morning Crowley’s gone without a trace. Aziraphale tries hard not to be upset and fails.

Crowley calls a few hours after dawn, just a quick assurance that he’d be around for dinner Tuesday like normal. He doesn’t seem too inspired to talk about whatever drove him out of bed so early, but Aziraphale tries to take the call as a positive.

The thing is, though, Crowley never shows up on Tuesday. He doesn’t call, nor does he make an appearance any other day of the week. Whenever Aziraphale calls he’s left to voicemail, then silence.

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s absence like a brand deep in his chest, close to his heart. From the moment he awoke without him there he felt it in each beat of his heart, and Aziraphale’s very first thought is _Crowley’s in danger._

But that’s ridiculous, he rations. He’s fine, he reasons. Hours tick by and Aziraphale sits, stiff backed at his desk chair with a cup of tea long gone cold. He’s got a book in his hands, but his head is full of Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.

Crowley injured. Crowley dying. Crowley dead.

He thinks of himself running to the rescue, but then he thinks of himself finding Crowley, perfectly fine, miffed that he’s being tracked down.

 _Bothersome sort, aren’t you?_ he might say, because all he did was leave without announcement and it’s not like he’s never done that before. And Aziraphale thinks of himself on that last night, poking an issue that seems to trigger alarm in Crowley, and his tight-jawed tension. Crowley’s always been known for his fits of melodrama. But no, maybe Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, either.

Days go by. Then weeks, and no sign of Crowley. Aziraphale’s been looking, in a subtle way, in all the obvious places like his apartment and their usual hangouts and the depressing little hole-in-the-wall bars that Crowley loves ever so much. The Bentley sits innocuously outside his Mayfair apartment, but no Crowley. While two months might not be long for someone who’s lived six thousand years, Aziraphale saw Crowley every day for the last eleven years. Aziraphale doesn’t think Crowley would entirely leave…

So it begs a much more worrying question.

Hidden in Aziraphale’s bookshop he has a scattered collection of books on witchery and spells. It comes to him one night when he’s thinking (read: worrying) and he spends three days reading each book cover to cover. He never really paid much mind to human magic, aside from the slight of hand tricks they did. The real stuff seemed pointless.

He just can’t turn to Heaven for this one. So he gathers supplies for magic. Candles and herbs and tin bowls. The whole time it doesn’t stop the little niggle of a thought that Crowley really did want some time off; maybe he went to Australia or Croatia or New Zealand. There’s a possibility he just left, no room to have discussions about the war or talk about Falling there.

He’s never done that, left England without a word, certainly not since they stated caring for Warlock. It’s still possible.

There’s no… _law_ against scrying on other ethereal beings without their consent, but it’s frowned upon, and there’s still a seed of doubt that there’s a rational reason for this, that Crowley’s just away. Every other less invasive location spell falls short before Aziraphale starts to consider it seriously.

It’s been almost another month when he’s scrying over a pool of water that’s as smooth as glass and he finds nothing. The reflection is just a mirror image of his own face before his focus cracks and it’s just water again.

No matter how many times he does the spell it remains the same. He doesn’t understand it. Everything he read made it seem like that even if the spell’s being blocked, he should see _something_ , he should feel _something_. But he doesn’t. It’s like he doesn’t exist.

Is it because he’s a demon? Without a second thought he scries on Hastur, who’s toying with souls down in Hell. Aziraphale closes the connection with a wince.

Aziraphale sits with the bowl of water in his hands for a long time, unmoving. Slowly, as if the thought is a bubble coming to the surface he wonders if this means that Crowley is dead. The thought settles in his mind and with an unknowable calm, he thinks _no_.

He hasn’t spoken to Anathema since the aborted apocalypse. After all, what was a bookish angel and a recalcitrant demon to a random witch? But she had proven herself to be resourceful, and if he owes her some extra favors, then fine. He still has her number tucked away at his desk, and when he calls she picks up without much hesitation.

“Hello?”

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale says, “I was wondering if I could employ your witchcraft skills for a moment.”

“Ah,” Anathema says, “Is this… are you that angel? I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“Aziraphale,” he says primly, “Please, I need a favor. I would be more than willing to pay.”

“I, er, don’t really do the witchcraft thing anymore--” she says, but Aziraphale doesn’t let her continue.

“I beg of you to make an exception,” Aziraphale says. She sputters a short laugh, the phone line crackling.

“I’m not sure what I possibly help you with,” she says. “Can’t you guys like, do real magic?”

“I need to find someone,” Aziraphale says, “There are ways for ethereal beings to find each other, but they are not…” he thinks of Heaven, an army of angels who don’t understand. “… appropriate. I need an expert in human magic.”

“I could, perhaps, help you scry for them, if you’d like? I’m not sure how it works for like… angels, but—”

“Yes, yes, that would be brilliant, thank you. I will be at Tadfield expressly. Give Newton my regards.”

And then he hangs up, not hearing Anathema’s protesting “wait!”

The taxi ride to Tadfield is long and dizzying. He tries to just close his eyes and ride through the waves of nausea.

“You alright, sir?” The cabbie looks in the rearview mirror at him with concern.

“Yes, fine,” Aziraphale says, opening his eyes and trying to look calm. “Carsick,” he lies.

“Ah, sorry,” the woman says with a slight shrug. “I’ll go easy on the turns. We’re almost there.”

He gives her a small nod of gratitude, but secretly wishes that she’d drive a little bit faster, a little bit more reckless.

Newt greets him at the door when he gets to Anathema’s cottage, looking just as Aziraphale remembers him. Whether or not he remembers him Aziraphale isn’t sure, but he smiles politely and lets him in regardless.

“Hello,” he says, letting the door shut behind him. “Anathema said you were coming.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, glancing at him briefly. “Is she around?”

“Yeah, she said she’d be back in a moment.” Newt says, leading them into the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Ah, no thank you.”

“Where’s your boyfriend? The other one?”

“My,” Aziraphale balks, “Boyfriend?”

“The dark and lanky one,” Newt says, making a broad upward motion. “Not that you have more than one—”

“Crowley is my adversary,” Aziraphale says, perhaps a bit too sharply. Whatever passes over Newt’s face he doesn’t quite understand it. “He’s gone missing.”

“Right,” Newt says, putting the kettle on the stove. “Adversary.”

Luckily Anathema comes in to spare Aziraphale the pain of explaining, her arms laden with a cardboard box bursting with things.

“Oh,” Newt says, going to help her, but she waves him off, dumping it all on the kitchen table.

“So,” Anathema says, “Scrying, you said?”

Anathema doesn’t do much different than what he did himself, but he waits patiently at the kitchen table for her to set up a bowl and begin to concentrate.

The surface goes glassy, mirrored white, and for a long moment he hopes that maybe this is it. Then a furrow in her brow appears and the surface breaks, and she’s staring at him with wounded eyes.

“Aziraphale…”

“Is he—” he can’t say it, and his voice cracks badly.

“No, he’s—he’s just gone,” Anathema says. “Maybe… maybe it’s different with demons, but I can usually tell when people have passed away. He’s just—it’s like he’s just gone.”

“Right,” he says, standing up abruptly from his place at the table. He nods to Anathema. “Thank you for your help, dear. I will be in touch whenever you need anything from me.” He walks right out of the house, and they don’t even try to stop him. It isn’t until he’s in the cab ride back to London that he realizes that his departure was rather rude, but he can’t find it in him to care. It rains on the way back, and it makes him furious, watching the water beat on the cab window. This is no time for moroseness, and to think there’s no one out there to help him. That he’s really alone in this.

It’s not until he’s back at the bookshop that he looks up at the sky and asks, “What have you done with him?” He doesn’t get a response.

He prays to Her every night, more faithfully than he’s done in centuries, for answers. He prays for Crowley’s safety for hours and meets silence.

It’s years until he gives it up.

But there’s the sword. It’s his; when he calls it comes to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up somewhere he really doesn't want to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter that features the child abuse. the rest of the fic should only be implied or referenced, but this whole chapter is pretty heavy with parental emotional abuse.

Time doesn’t really mean much to creatures who live for millennia, and Crowley has no idea how long he’s been here. One moment he’s driving the Bentley through London and the next he’s in a summoning circle, being bombarded with magic he doesn’t even recognize.

“—you’ll be the best of the best for my family,” Crowley hears when his ears stop ringing. There’s a man standing just outside of the perimeter of the circle, looming. He leans closer when he notices that Crowley’s coming to his senses. “Ellis Rameriez, though I’m your boss now, so you might want to get used to calling me sir.”

“What the fuck,” Crowley chokes, and then someone behind Rameriez says something and Crowley’s vision goes black.

For a while, however long, Crowley stays in the circle as fuzzy figures perform ever increasingly complex spells. Whatever they’ve got going on is making him dizzy and delirious, and even though he can hear them asking him questions sometimes he can’t parse them. He’s too dazed to really be worried yet, but as he feels magic thread through him, constricting him tighter and tighter, even half conscious he begins to feel a prickle of worry.

By the time they’re hauling Crowley out of the circle he feels like he’s got an eternity’s worth of magic weighing him down. His senses are dulled and sluggish, and he can’t even see the auras of the humans anymore. If he focuses, he can feel the magic just buzzing below the surface of his skin. Subtly, he tries a small miracle and he feels it bear down on him, razor sharp, and he has to bite back a yelp.

“Wouldn’t try that, now,” Rameriez says, face contorted in a surprising facsimile of sympathy. Rameriez is a towering sort of man, intimidating but tucked away beneath a dress shirt and tie. Yet, he’s remarkably gentle as he guides Crowley up the stairs. Crowley goes, not fighting quite yet, lured by this sense of safety despite himself.

“What do you want?” Crowley’s question goes unanswered as they make their unsteady way up the stairs, and even though they’re taking it slow it’s making Crowley’s head spin. He’s nauseated and burning, like he’s coming down with a bad flu.

They walk through a wide, open concept house decorated with ritzy chandeliers and fine art on the walls. There’s a high staircase with delicately carved railing that rises to the second floor. There’s the door to the house to his right.

“Where are you taking me,” Crowley stops, yanking his hand back and still surprisingly, Rameriez lets him.

“Your room,” Rameriez says easily, unflappable expression still in place.

“Whatever you’re doing, I want no part of thisss,” Crowley hisses, “Temptations, manipulations, murder, whatever, find another demon to do your dirty work. I’m retired.”

Crowley’s turned and made barely one step when Rameriez says, “Stop.” Crowley’s feet stop moving without his permission. “You are not going to leave.”

“What the fuck,” Crowley chokes out as his body walks back to Rameriez’s side.

“You’ll do good here,” Rameriez says placidly, as if nothing had happened. “You’re part of the family now.”

Whatever magic Rameriez had mastered Crowley had never encountered it before. Crowley didn’t exactly make it a habit to involve himself with Earth-dwelling magic, but generally humans were below even the lowest level ethereal beings in terms of magical skill. Blessings and holy water can hurt a demon, maybe a powerful exorcism can do what it’s said to do, but binding—no, full control—it wasn’t supposed to be possible.

And yet.

“What’s your name?” Rameriez says, passively watching Crowley strain against the binding. No matter how much he tries his body stays still where it’s sitting on the bed.

“Anthony J Crowley,” Crowley’s voice says without his permission. He snaps his mouth closed the moment he’s able, hissing out an angry breath.

“Good,” Rameriez says, “Anthony.”

“My name’s Crowley,” Crowley hisses, wishing he could tear this man limb from limb. He used the name Anthony with humans, but not with this human.

“That’s not what you said,” Rameriez says, a bit smugly. “Now, Anthony, you’re going to tell me just what you’re capable of.”

When Crowley found himself at that circle he thought he was just going to be told to murder someone. That’s the usual demon summoning trick, but Rameriez is confusingly opaque about why he summoned Crowley. He’s here for the protection of his daughter. Crowley seems to be handpicked for the job, somehow, Rameriez smiling down at him knowingly.

“I’ve heard you have some experience with this, ah, Warlock kid,” Rameriez says placidly. “What an interesting name on that one.”

“Fuck off,” Crowley hisses, just making Rameriez’s smile grow.

“Yes, you’ll do perfectly.”

The first night he tried to run away. Waited for the moment that Rameriez fell asleep and made a break for it out the back of the house. He didn’t make it to the edge of the property before he was at his knees, gasping as the magic deep in his skin rendered him useless. Then he stayed there until the morning when Rameriez’s lawn cleaners hauled him back to the house.

It ended up like that a lot. The little magic dog collar that Rameriez had fixed him with was crafty. Any creative plan he could come up with was preemptively stopped. He couldn’t use phones or computers or even write anything more verbose than a shopping list. Talking to any of the other house staff was out of the question. His free time hobby was trying to suss out the details of the magic, but if he got too conspicuous Rameriez commanded Crowley downstairs like a scolded dog. The circle, whatever he’d done to it, burned him to the core. He’d lose hours at a time, dizzy from the way his senses skirted away from him, until he was fetched again.

Sometimes, through the haze, Crowley dreamt about Aziraphale. It’s only when he wakes that he the dawning fear comes to him—he has no idea what this man is capable of. He’s sure that Aziraphale is worried, oh, of course he knows that, but right now Crowley is useful. Humans only live so long, but if Crowley gets Aziraphale killed there’s no do over. No re-dos now that Heaven and Hell are after them.

So he stays. It can only be so long.

Crowley thinks it’s perhaps a bit funny that he’s been trapped into doing what is essentially a nannying job, after all this, after Warlock and Adam and everything. At any rate it feels like fitting into an old pair of shoes, an outfit he’d nearly forgotten existed.

The littlest one is a toddler named Dee, and the older one is a preteen named Cora. He hardly sees Cora, who spends most of her time with her father and busily hates Crowley with all she’s worth, so Crowley is mostly left alone with Dee. 

Almost right away Rameriez dumps her in his lap and then he’s gone for long stretches at a time, so he figures he ought to get used to her. And she’s sweet, she really is. He knows none of this is her fault.

It’s almost surprising how she takes a shine to him immediately. She hardly ever asks about her father or sister, dutifully following Crowley about the house. He tries hard not to think about what that means, just letting her come to him when she calls.

“Anthony!” Dee comes barreling towards him like he’s been gone for centuries even though he’s been sitting there the whole time. She trips at the last second, stumbling at his feet.

“Whoa,” he says, balancing her. She’s recently decided she really enjoys the whole running thing and is sure to do it as often and recklessly as possible, “Careful, tiger.”

“Can we go to the park?”

Crowley nervously looks at the doorway. Rameriez and Cora have been gone for hours, and he’s not sure what the rules are for caring for a child on his own are. “We should wait for your father to come home,” is what he settles upon.

“But Papa never wants to go to the park,” Dee says, “and you’re more fun.” Crowley can see this as a sly manipulation tactic, and he’d be proud if it wasn’t being used on him.

“I know, dearie,” he pets her head gently even as she looks up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Why don’t we go play with the trains you like.”

“Park!” Dee wails, and begins to cry. “I want to go to the park!”

“Dee,” Crowley says, placatingly, and after several minutes of unsuccessful attempts at consoling her he grabs one of Dee’s trains. “Hey, look, I have something even better than the park.”

Obligingly, she looks at him, still hiccupping through tears. He holds up the little red train and he senses she’s about to object so he holds up a finger. With only a second of hesitation he miracles the train to float up off his hand, sailing gently around the room. Instantly it has Dee’s attention and the tears vanish as quick as they came, staring open mouthed at the toy making little loops in the air.

Sure, it stings a little, the magic burrowing under his skin, but Crowley’s willing to accept that sacrifice sometimes. She’s special. She’s gotta be.

As special as she is, Rameriez has no problem with leaving her with Crowley all the time. Of all things, Crowley couldn’t figure out why Rameriez trusted him with his daughter so often. He’s a demon after all, it’s not like childcare comes with that. Maybe he’d eat her. Let her swallow batteries. Set the house on fire.

(He wouldn’t. She’s just a little kid.)

Rameriez didn’t know that, though. He should be a fretting parent, worried that the mean old demon is going to ruin his child. If he’d summoned any other demon he’d have an issue on his hands.

It’s not until she’s throwing one of her epic fits, and hours into the hysteria Rameriez locks her in her room and bars Crowley from doing anything that he really figures it out.

“You’re not to coddle her,” Rameriez says, marching back down the stairs. “She’s to stay there until morning. She has to learn.”

She’s just a little kid, and Crowley listens to her wailing turn from petulant to scared to outright terrified.

“It’s okay,” he says through the door. “I’m here for you.”

Her crying doesn’t ever really stop, but he listens to her the whole night. Later, Rameriez throws him back in that damn circle, scolding him.

“You’re soft on her,” he hears his voice come in from far away. “You were a waste of valuable resources making me do a demon’s work.”

A demon’s work, he says. It’s not until later that Crowley finds this funnier than he does in the moment. When Rameriez’s definition of ‘demon’s work’ becomes clear he doesn’t find it funny at all. 

“Anthony,” Rameriez says in that toneless way, and Crowley has no choice but to come.

The moment he steps outside to the porch he knows something is wrong. Cora’s sitting in the edge of the dim light doing a poor job of disguising her crying. She’s a preteen, of course she cries, but in the time that Crowley’s been trapped he’d never seen Cora express anything besides distant annoyance. It makes fear jolt down his back.

“Cora’s having some trouble in school,” Rameriez says, “Her math grade’s been dropping.”

“I,” Crowley starts, slowly, “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help with this, exactly.” At Rameriez’s long stare he tacks on scornfully, “Sir.”

“You’re going to take care of the teacher and make the grades disappear,” Rameriez says, not really looking at Crowley. He’s flicking out a cigarette and lighting it. Crowley didn’t even know he smoked. “I’m disappointed in Cora, but we’ll handle this and in the future she’ll do better.”

“I’ll,” Crowley’s fairly sure this conversation is happening on a different plane of reality. “Take… care of…?”

“Kill, eliminate, dispose of,” Rameriez says, with a tone that suggest rolling his eyes is below him, but he’d like to consider it. He flicks ash off of his cigarette. “Are we clear?”

“N-uh,” Crowley stumbles, floored. Cora is silently sobbing, covering her face with her hands. “No, we’re not clear! I’m not going to—”

“Yes, you are,” Rameriez says, and he looks at Crowley then. “Go, do as you’re told.”

And then Crowley’s body is moving on its own. This part Crowley remembers, but he wishes he didn’t.

After that it’s like a threat, lying just under his skin. Before he was just Rameriez’s overqualified dog, but now he’s his realized weapon. And Crowley knows that its not _really_ his job to protect Dee, but sometimes, well, sometimes he just gets caught up in it.

It’s just that sometimes he’ll see her, all full of panic or anger, and just watch her as she tears herself apart at the seams. She’s supposed to be young and carefree, but there have been plenty of times he’s tried to calm her down while she’s throwing everything in arms reach.

“Dee,” he’ll say over the tenor of her yelling, loud as possible, at the top of her lungs. “You’re okay, it’s okay. Come here and talk to me.”

He’ll sit and let herself exhaust herself, waiting for her to crawl into his arms. She’ll cry, sometimes. There are times where he doesn’t even know what started them, and he’ll try to encourage it out of her.

“My chest feels tight,” she says once, looking at him imploringly. “I feel like I can’t breathe, and I want to yell until it goes away.”

“Ah, I know, I know,” he says, petting her hair. “I know it’s hard, but together we can work on talking through it, alright? Next time your chest feels tight come talk to me. We’ll make it better.”

“Okay,” Dee whispers, and curls into his arms without complaint.

The older Dee gets the more Rameriez orders him to the side. Besides, he doesn’t really know what to do once Dee gets older, goes to school, doesn’t need him all the time. He sleeps. He reads books that make him think of Aziraphale, a deep ache in his chest that he tries not to focus on. He watches mutely as Rameriez commands his daughters in directions _you are to—_ and _you never to_ —and most of all, _you will understand when you are older._

“I wish you were my father,” Dee whispers to him one night, after she’d asked him to sit with her late at night. It’s past midnight, and he’d made her cocoa. It’s surely against her father’s rule, but he’s out with Cora and he doesn’t have to know. But if they were caught…

“He’s trying, he just doesn’t know any other way,” Crowley says.

“Why does he get so mad at me?” Dee asks, looking at him with big, vulnerable eyes. “I don’t get why.”

“Oh, Dee, it’s not you. It’s not your fault,” Crowley says. “He just… doesn’t know how to express his feelings.”

Dee just looks at him, and Crowley sighs, kneeling down next to her chair.

“You know how you were saying you get so upset you feel it in your chest?” Crowley takes her hand and presses it to her chest. She nods after a slow moment of understanding. “Some people cry, some people yell. Some people keep it all inside for years and it comes out weird.”

“Dad just—he keeps it all inside?”

“He does,” Crowley says, hugging her. “You’re not doing anything wrong, sweet. He’s just hurting inside, and he thinks he’s doing the best for you.”

“You can’t help him?” Dee asks. “You helped me.”

“No,” Crowley chuckles, shaking his head. He kisses the top of her head. This child, this precious darling thing. She’s the most special thing he’s ever laid eyes on. “I can’t, dear. I can’t help him.”

Dee gets older, and slowly but surely Rameriez has more and more _tasks_ for him.

Crowley’s was alive for humanity’s most grotesque time periods. He’d seen plagues and genocides and the worst savagery of history. He rather likes modern times. Rameriez sends him on little errand trips that make him remember why he loves his sheltered Mayfair apartment so much.

He’s the muscle, mostly. Otherwise he conveniently makes things disappear or appear. His ability to miracle has been ostensibly limited to the command of Rameriez, but sometimes he plays dumb just to make things difficult.

The politician that Rameriez wanted out of the picture won a vacation across the world and found his calling in humanitarian efforts. Crowley’s favorite was when an important document had gone missing and Rameriez suggested he, “ensure that important things no longer slip through the cracks.” Crowley spent three months encouraging everything from tv remotes to car keys to fall behind shelves and couches alike. Besides, what is _important_ now a days…

He really doesn’t know what he’s helping Rameriez do, if he’s honest. Drugs, he thought at first. Human trafficking. But night after night Cora returns home emanating something evil, something dark.

He doesn’t want to know. He just tries to keep to himself as Rameriez drags Dee under the current of it, quick like a riptide, deep into the sea of something Crowley’s terrified of.

Oh, time really does mean nothing to ethereal beings that live for as long as Crowley had. There are times where the tv blares out a date weeks after he had last checked, and sometimes the clock spitefully ticks in a forgetful march. He watches Dee get older before his eyes and he can’t believe how fast time is slipping by and how long it’s taking to get free.

On Dee’s tenth birthday Rameriez takes her away for something. It’s two days until she’s back, and there’s none of the sunshine smile anymore. There’s something off about her. When she walks through the front door it’s almost impossible to look at her directly. She waits patiently for her father to bid her goodnight and leave, and then she pulls Crowley upstairs to her room. Her hand is tight around his even as she’s pulling a book off the shelf and handing it to him.

“Will you—you’ll read this to me, ok?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, looking at the love worn cover, concerned. Dee scrambles up onto the bed, looking like she’s trying for rebellious and ending up more terrified. He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Why this one?”

“You always read it to me,” Dee says, defensive. Crowley runs a hand over the cover gently. He used to… but for a couple years. Not since she was younger. She insisted that he didn’t need to read to her a while ago. “Forget it,” she says, going to get out of bed, and he stops her.

“No, no, I’ll read it to you,” Crowley says, “I was just thinking that you might want some cocoa before we start?”

Oh, there’s a bit of the sunshine smile. There are some clouds, but Crowley can work with that.

He tries hard to help Dee, because well, oh, he can admit that he’s found himself caring for her. She’s different, she’s special, she’s important. Yet, somehow, despite everything, at some point he thinks he loses her. He’s not sure when exactly it was.

Whenever Rameriez catches them chatting he sends Crowley away, scolding him for being too soft on her. He wastes so much time worrying, watching her from the corner of his eye as she drifts from room to room. Without Dee he is just Rameriez’s loaded gun, to be pointed and shot. And every time it happens, he thinks of his angel, back in London, oh. How _disappointed_ he’ll be that Crowley has blood on his hands.

It’s too hard to think about Aziraphale, so he just thinks about Dee.

He catches her trying to steal a bottle of wine out of the cellar once, and takes it from her, wicked quick. He’s about to scold her until he hears Rameriez coming down from upstairs, and ushers her into the kitchen. He’s the one caught with the damn bottle, as if he wanted any of Rameriez’s shitty wine. He doesn’t know how long he spends in the circle, losing time as he feels his skin prickle and sear, but he hopes Dee’s not stupid enough to try that again.

“Sorry,” Dee says, once they’re alone in the house and Rameriez has left with Cora. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” Crowley sighs. He wants to hug her, but he doesn’t know if that’s still allowed. The way he keeps catching her watching him, wary, draws him back one step at a time. “You need to be more careful.”

“Yes,” she says, not looking at him.

She’s not, though. Careful. She’s restless, and he knows that, but he doesn’t know what the repercussions are going to be if she can’t keep it together more. He covers for her after she breaks a series of wine glasses, and miracles away the little stick-n-poke tattoo she’d given herself. He’d even managed to keep her from getting suspended, truly miraculously keeping the news from Rameriez.

“What are you doing,” Crowley hisses at her, after he’s done struggling through a miracle, “I can’t keep covering for you. Your father—”

“I don’t care what he does!” She’s a bit too wild around the eyes lately, but Crowley just… he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He’s as trapped as she is. “ _Let_ him.”

It’s not really his choice because she gets caught pilfering money from her father’s wallet next. With Cora cackling cruelly in the background, Rameriez hauls Crowley upstairs.

“You’re going to keep an eye on her, aren’t you,” Rameriez says, his face dangerously close to Crowley’s. “She is not to do anything without permission. _My_ permission.”

“Yes,” Crowley hisses, through the thrum of panic he can hear roaring in his ears. Then he grinds out, “Sssir.”

The next time Dee tries to sneak out at night Crowley feels himself going after her, even if he doesn’t want to. He’s grabbing her, hauling her back, and she’s shouting at him.

“Let me go,” she’s yelling. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Crowley says, but he’s picking her up bodily. Despite her thrashing he’s bringing her back to the house. It feels like a grave. “I don’t want to do this, but I have to.”

“You’re horrible,” she shouts, hitting him with wild blows. He grabs her arms and pins them down. “You’re just as bad as dad.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says. He locks her in her room, listening to her as her shouting goes from furious to despairing. “I’m sorry,” he says through the door. It’s always back to this, it seems, inevitably.

Dee doesn’t speak to him for a week after that. By the end of the week he’s making her dinner and she sits at the at the table, silent. Rameriez and Cora are out, as they usually are. Technically, she’s grounded, but Rameriez never told Crowley to keep her in her room, so… What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“You’ve been here this whole time,” Dee says, suddenly. “Don’t you have other people who love you?”

“Ah,” Crowley says. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say here. He doesn’t dare look at her. “Yes, I do.”

“And you’re not with them?”

“I’ll—” Crowley sighs, feeling something wild and angry rise in his chest before he can tamp it down. “I’ll return to him eventually.”

“Why…” Dee pauses, a bare hesitation. “Why not now?”

“Sweet, I think you know the answer to that,” Crowley says softly. He hands her a plate. “Here, eat.”


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale’s phone rings. This isn’t too especially unusual, but there’s not many people besides for Newt and Anathema who call him nowadays. Though, he supposes they’re overdue for a day out to tea. Still, he’s fairly sure that Anathema only sees him because she thinks he’s lonely. Silly, in all the six thousand years…

He bumbles his way to the phone, picking it up.

“Aziraphale!” Anathema shouts through the line.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, startled. “Yes, Anathema, I was just thinking of you—”

“No! No time, just—” There’s an awfully lot of noise on the other line, scuffling, and banging, like things are being shoved onto the floor. “Do you have a computer?”

“Er,” Aziraphale says, looking at his loyal IBM PC. “It is perhaps a little old…”

“You need to see this, it’s—it’s Crowley—Come to—No, forget it, I’m getting a cab right now, I’ll be there in twenty!”

And then the line is dead. He stares at the phone blankly for a long moment. Crowley? He thought Anathema was too young to be losing her memory, but maybe he knew less about humans than he thought.

He’s torn through most of Europe looking for Crowley, aimlessly searching for Crowley’s aura, but he keeps returning to London. The idea of Crowley trying to return to him and having the bookshop be empty is too awful to contemplate.

The sword is still sitting in the corning of his shop. He hasn’t been taking it with him because if he’s honest, he was afraid he’d use it. Rage came to him short and quick lately, an errant betrayal, and he knows if anyone, even a human, stood in his way, he would not hesitate. He picks it up now, examining the shine of the blade. He knows he should put away for good, but he feels close to Crowley in his anger, like he’s at least doing _something_.

He must waste a lot of time siting there with the sword in his hands, because before he knows it Anathema is bursting into the bookshop. If it surprises her to see him holding a sword, she doesn’t say anything.

“Aziraphale!” She’s still shouting, pulling her bag over her shoulder.

“I, I’m still not sure what’s—” Then she’s shoving a laptop in his face, open to a webpage. There’s a picture on it. It’s a picture of Crowley. He’s looking away from the camera, body angled away, his hair longer, tied back in a hurried knot, but it’s unmistakably Crowley. Aziraphale gapes.

“What,” he starts. The last time his hair was that long was before Warlock, years ago. And it can’t be then, the flashy modern tv on the wall is modern, and his jacket… He feels sick. “Where did you get that?”

“There’s this—this witch girl who’s trying to find out where her father’s mysterious house guest came from and,” She pulls the computer back, snapping it closed. “Oh, Aziraphale, it’s Crowley. I’m getting Newt to find the IP address of the person who posted and—”

“Newt?” Aziraphale’s still reeling.

“Oh, well, not _him_ , he’s going to coach a friend to do it so he doesn’t break it and then send me the address, and—” She stops because Aziraphale turns to her, face furious.

“Where? Where is the address?”

“I told you,” Anathema says, putting her hands up defensively. “Newt’s on it. I came here right away. I knew you’d want—”

“I need to—” Aziraphale takes a couple numb steps back, and he suddenly remembers the sword in his hands. He looks at it, uncomprehending, for a long moment. “I need to save him.”

“It’s okay,” Anathema is saying, but it sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “You will. Come on, let’s sit, alright? Maybe some tea?”

She coaches him into a chair, where he sits numbly but it’s not a few moments later that her phone dings.

“Oh,” she says. “You—you ready for the address?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says without hesitation. She reads it aloud with a frown. Aziraphale repeats it, distantly.

“Looks like it’s in America, but we can book plane tickets tonight—” Anathema looks up from her phone and Aziraphale’s gone.

Aziraphale’s not particularly fond of returning to Heaven, but he must if he wishes to cross the Atlantic Ocean in a moments’ time. He’s barely past the gates when he sees Michael, whose attention snaps to him as if he’d been expected.

“Aziraphale,” Michael says in greeting, making her sweeping way towards him. It isn’t long before there’s a frown of consternation on her face, though. “Why have you abandoned your post?”

This almost makes Aziraphale laugh. He might’ve if he wasn’t in such a hurry. His post. As if in the shadow of the almost-apocalypse he’s been given a station with such holy importance. At the very least the apocalypse made the archangels question themselves, just enough. “It’s—ah, no matter,” Aziraphale says, trying to sidle past her, hands splayed in supplication. “I will return shortly. Just popping out.”

“Is that the sword?” Michael gapes at him, uncharacteristically floundered. “Why do you have the sword with you?”

“Well, the Almighty _did_ give to me,” Aziraphale says, tucking the sword behind his back like he can hide it from Michael’s mind. “And now—ah, well, now I need it.”

“For what,” Michael says, sternly putting herself in front of Aziraphale again. He could see the globe just beyond his reach, so close. “Is something dangerous coming? What could be so important?”

“Yes, yes, dangerous, very dangerous. I’m on a—a mission. Saving a friend,” Aziraphale says, inching around her. She watches him, curiously, like a cat would watch a mouse. “He needs my help very badly.”

“A… friend?” Bless her, Michael looks so confused. She’s watching him, bewildered. “It’s very concerning that an angel would be in danger. You should tell Gabriel and we could get some forces together to—”

“No need! No need,” Aziraphale’s hardly looking at her, watching the globe spin slowly until he sees north America showing. “I best be off.” And then he makes a break for the globe, touching the western coast of America and disappearing.

He hardly even hears Michael as she yells at him, “If this is another one of your _schemes--_ ”

And then he opens his eyes and he’s in America.

He’s been, of course. Just not for a very long time. Well over a hundred years, maybe two, and that was plenty of time to turn the open wilderness into the sprawling metropolis it is now.

This also means he has no idea where he’s going. He’s standing on a roadside, staring into the edge of an open desert and he spares himself a moment to miss Crowley vividly, wretchedly.

Then he snaps his fingers and miraculously a cab drives over the horizon and stops at Aziraphale’s waiting wave.

“Please take me there,” Aziraphale says after repeating the address, not even waiting for pleasantries. The cab driver blinks at him for a moment. Perhaps because Aziraphale is a primly dressed British man standing in the middle of nowhere with no luggage except a sword, but also maybe because Aziraphale miracled him to be out here in the first place. “This is urgent,” Aziraphale says, getting the man’s attention. “I would insist you hurry.”

The other angels are likely on high alert after Michael saw his weird behavior, but that doesn’t stop him from miracling the drive to be as quick as possible. They arrive at an intimidatingly large house atop a long driveway.

“There’s a gate,” the cab says, stopping as close as he can get. “Are you sure this is—”

“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale says, and without looking hands the man an absurd amount of money and gets out of the cab. To his credit, the cabbie idles there for a long moment before seemingly reluctantly driving off, leaving Aziraphale standing at the wide gates. He can feel something evil inside. He thinks, vaguely, that it could be him projecting, but as he hefts the sword higher he finds he doesn’t care.

He takes a deep breath and miracles the gate open.

Internally, Aziraphale had been expecting to come swooping in to save Crowley from immediate harm. Instead, he pushes open the door to what appears to be an empty house. He wastes a long moment standing there on the stoop, flaming sword in his hand, taking in the normalness of his surroundings. It looks like an entirely average, albeit rich, house. A foyer with a swooping staircase leads to an open concept upper floor. Dazedly, Aziraphale stares at the chandelier for a long moment before he realizes he can hear the low tones of people talking in the other room.

He eases himself around the corner, trying to be silent, and to his surprise it’s Crowley sitting with a young girl on a couch. They’re watching a tv show, and Crowley’s making rude comments that make her giggle.

Aziraphale’s hands feel numb. He nearly fumbles the sword to the ground, barely catching it before it falls.

“Crowley,” he gasps.

The girl screams. Aziraphale distantly realizes is a normal reaction to seeing an armed stranger in her house, but he can’t look away from Crowley. Crowley’s standing, still staring at Aziraphale wide-eyed and terrified on the other side of the couch. Aziraphale takes a step back, feeling doubt fracture his anger. He feels nausea roil in his gut.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispers, his voice cracking dangerously. “I’ll—”

“I’m calling the police,” the girl shouts, looking terrified herself. She’s got a phone pressed to her ear, and without thinking Aziraphale miracles it out of existence. She yelps, scrambling back. “ _Anthony,_ do something!”

Frantically, Crowley shakes his head. “No, no, I—” he stops. His head swivels to Aziraphale wildly. “ _Please_ go. It’s dangerous.”

That makes the girl’s attention snaps to Crowley. “You—you know him?” Bizarrely, she relaxes, looking curious instead of terrified. Her clenched fists relax, drifting to her sides. “How did—”

Before she gets a chance to finish there’s shouting at the door. There’s a man asking what’s happening and why the door’s open, and it makes both the girl and Crowley go still.

“Go,” Crowley pleads, jumping over the back of the couch in his haste to get to Aziraphale. “Go, please, just go—”

“Crowley—”

Crowley’s eyes go wide in fear, flashes of amber, and Aziraphale turns to see a burly man standing in the hallway. A second later, a woman armed with a gun comes around the corner, her steady aim directly on Aziraphale.

“A sword,” the man chuckles, “That may be one of our more interesting guests.”

The woman cocks the gun, and with a wave of Crowley’s hand it’s gone. Immediately he’s gasping, bending forward, clutching at his chest. Both the man and the woman whirl to him.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” the woman says and then Crowley’s knees give out, folding forward.

“Crowley!” They’re close enough that Aziraphale catches Crowley before he falls. Out of the corner of his eye he watches as the girl from before takes a step towards them, only stopping when Aziraphale hauls Crowley closer protectively. She stops, her frightened eyes flickering from Crowley to the other two people in the room. “What did they do to him?” Aziraphale demands and the girl just stares at him, open mouthed.

“Deal with the intruder, Anthony,” the man says, looking at them placidly before moving past them to the kitchen.

“What do you think you’re doing to him?” Aziraphale yells, feeling the way Crowley’s gone tense and silent in his arms.

“Go on,” the man says as if Aziraphale hadn’t spoken. “Dee, go get dressed, now. We’re going to be late.”

Crowley shoves Aziraphale away, but his legs still can’t hold him, so he crumples to the floor. “No,” he gasps. His nails dig into the plush carpet.

“Dad—” The girl starts, not looking away from Crowley.

“Do as you’re told, please,” the man says from where he’s begun to bang around the kitchen, and when Aziraphale takes a step to pursue him the woman who had the gun bodily shoves him back. She glances at Crowley for a second before barking out, “Anthony, _do as you’re told”_ and then Aziraphale’s attention goes to the fact that Crowley’s begun to scream.

“Stop!” Aziraphale yells. “Stop, you’re hurting him!” He drops his sword in his haste to get to Crowley, who’s bowed forward on the ground, in pain from some invisible hurt. The moment the sword touches the ground the flames go out, leaving just silent metal behind.

“He doesn’t normally resist so much,” the woman says, stepping forward to step on the blade of Aziraphale’s sword. “If you leave, you’d save us all the trouble.”

“You—” Aziraphale stands up, and he doesn’t know what he looks like, but it makes the confidence on the woman’s face waver.

“Anthony,” the girl calls out, still cowering a way away. “It’s time to go to sleep!” As soon as she says that Crowley’s horrible noises of pain stop, and he drops to the ground with a thud. Aziraphale barely has time to watch his eyes roll back before it’s over, and then the man comes out from kitchen yelling to wrench the girl into the air by her collar.

“No,” Aziraphale says, furious, feeling his limbs shake. This is going on all wrong. With a wave of his hand he sends a chandelier crashing down, forcing the man to jump out of the way. The girl goes scurrying behind the couch as soon as she’s let go. “Enough of this.”

He begins to make his way to the man again, and when the woman tries to stop him Aziraphale sends her crashing to the side. The man is lying on the ground staring up at him with horrified eyes, and Aziraphale feels righteous fury in every step. His wings flutter out unconsciously, sending shards of debris scattering and spreading to take up the whole entryway. The arm the man puts over his eyes does nothing to protect him from the holy glow Aziraphale’s begun to emanate.

“You’re an angel,” the man gasps, all confidence gone. He’s the perfect image of mollified humanity. “Aren’t you supposed to protect us?”

“You are not the people I’m meant to protect,” Aziraphale says, hauling the man to his feet. He hears the woman moving about behind him, but he pays her no mind. “I am meant to protect others from people like you.”

When waves his hand the light grows so bright that it’s impossible to see, and it takes several moments for Aziraphale’s vision to return to him. He blinks away stars to see that that all that’s left of the foyer is a ragged hole. He stands there for a long moment, collecting himself, just calming the roar of holy righteousness boiling in his gut. When he can manage it Aziraphale’s wings flutter into nonexistence, and he looks around distantly at the damage.

Even through the filter of rage he still feels he knows he went a bit overboard. There’s nothing but rubble for a good section of the house. There’s no sign of any of the humans, but he doesn’t really care where he sent them if he’s honest. He’s sure Heaven will care. He certainly went beyond his station. He doesn’t regret it, though. He sighs shakily, trying to shake the image of Crowley screaming on the ground while those humans just stared on, and then he opens his eyes on a jolt of fear.

“Crowley,” he breathes, whirling about. Stupid of him, harnessing holy power, what if he—but no, Crowley’s there, lying on the ground like nothing happened. Aziraphale’s at his side in a moment. “Crowley,” he chokes out, shaking his shoulder and watching as his head lulls senselessly. It’s all he can do to press his hand against Crowley’s neck, feeling the reassuring pulse and the living warmth there. He chokes on a sigh that feels more like a sob, resting his forehead against Crowley’s shoulder.

“Um,” a voice says, and Aziraphale jolts up, alert. “I can—I can wake him up, if you want.” The girl from before creeps out from behind the wreckage of the house, shoulders hunched. There’s something strange about her now, something off. She’s hard to look at directly, like looking into direct sunlight. But she’s walking towards them, looking directly at Crowley.

“How did you—” he jumps up, stalking towards her and she stumbles back in fear. “What do you mean you can wake him up.”

“Anthony,” she calls out like before, but this time her voice is trembling. “Wake up, now.” Instantly, Crowley is stirring, mumbling something, and Aziraphale’s attention is back to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale mumbles, cupping Crowley’s cheek as his eyelids flutter and he tries to get his bearings. “You’re safe now, I’ve got you, it’s going to be alright—”

As soon as Crowley realizes what’s happened, he’s trying to wrest himself up. “Is he—are you alright?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s okay, I promise,” Aziraphale soothes, and Crowley groans through a wave of dizziness that keeps him grounded. “I, er, took care of the humans.”

Crowley’s eyes flutter open again, disoriented and confused. “The—why are you here?”

“You were gone so long,” Aziraphale says, pursing his lips to keep them from wobbling. “I didn’t realize you had—” Aziraphale glances up at the girl, who is still staring a good distance away. “I’m sorry if I intruded—”

“God—Satan—fuck,” Crowley swears, and then starts laughing, something watery and uncontrolled. “Aziraphale. You came.”

“Of co—of course I did,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb against Crowley’s cheek. “I never stopped looking, ever since the day you were gone.”

Crowley’s hand comes up to grab at Aziraphale’s, squeezing gently. “I missed you so much,” he says.

“I—I missed you, too, my dear.”

“Can you—help me up, would you?”

Aziraphale guides Crowley up to sitting, who slumps against Aziraphale the moment he’s anywhere close to upright.

“Man,” Crowley says, as if he’s not leaning his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder like it’s the only thing holding him up. “You really showed those humans, didn’t you?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, then quieter. “Yes.”

“Shame about the girl, though,” Crowley says, sighing, his eyes slipping closed again. “I was coming to like her.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, having forgotten about her for the moment. “She—she seems to have survived.” His gaze snaps to where she’s hovering a fair distance away, still timid. “You. How did you do that?”

“Um,” the girl says, her voice very soft. “He’s always done what I asked.”

Aziraphale’s wound up tight enough to fight again, and Crowley soothingly runs a hand down his back. “Magic,” he says against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “The old man had a whole lotta magic that he packed into me. Not her fault.”

Aziraphale, feeling a bit put off that Crowley’s so willing to jump to this human’s defense, huffs out a breath. “You are not to do that again,” he looks at her sternly, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that Crowley is still dizzily tucked against him. “You will never use magic on him again, or I will—”

“Angel,” Crowley cuts Aziraphale off, pulling away to get his attention. “It’s okay. She’s helping. She helps.”

Aziraphale lets his mouth snap smartly shut, in part to keep all his objections in that she did nothing to help Crowley before. Crowley takes a deep breath before moving away from Aziraphale, sitting up in an uneasy sprawl.

“Dee,” he says, looking at the girl, who takes a small step forward at her name. “Come here already.” And then without a second’s hesitation, she does. Aziraphale feels a vague lance of alarm and anger in turn. He wishes he smote her off the planet with the rest of them. Then he instantly feels bad for thinking such a thing, watching the open affection drawn on Crowley’s face.

“Anthony are you —” Dee asks, eyes big and wide where she’s looking down at him.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he says, even though Aziraphale begs to differ. “Just a bit dizzy after all that.”

Aziraphale feels himself scowl and tries not to see the way Crowley looks at Dee with such gentle kindness. Dee keeps sneaking glances at Aziraphale, wary and terrified.

“My family—what happened to them? What did he—” Dee’s looking at Crowley, not Aziraphale, and Aziraphale tamps down a scowl before cutting her off.

“Gone, dear,” Aziraphale says shortly. “The other humans are gone, and we will procure you a place to go once we help Crowley.”

“What?” Dee says, finally looking up at Aziraphale with alarm. Her voice goes very small. “You killed them?”

“Dee,” Crowley says, with that soft expression again, that gentle concern.

“Crowley, my dear, please,” he says, “It’s pertinent that—”

“Satan, Angel, have a little sympathy,” Crowley says, leveraging himself up. Both Dee and Aziraphale jump to his side with hands eager to help only to be waved off. “I’m grateful that you’re here, but Dee’s been—”

“I almost certainly drew a great deal of attention from Heaven, we can’t stay here,” Aziraphale says, turning pleading eyes to Crowley. “We need to break the binding, please.”

Crowley stares at him, calculatingly, for a moment. “Alright, but Dee is staying,” he says decisively. Aziraphale almost fights him on it but sighs, nodding, glancing at the girl who is still staring at him in fear.

“Do you know how to undo the spell work?” Aziraphale asks her, frown growing when she starts to stutter nervously.

“I—I don’t know, the magic—I was never taught a lot—” Aziraphale’s glancing around the remains of the house for clues, already disinterested in Dee’s broken explanations. He’d like to go off and explore, but he can’t stomach the idea of leaving Crowley alone, especially not with someone he trusts as little as this strange girl.

“There’s a summoning circle,” Crowley says, trying to lead the way only to have to be caught by Aziraphale. “Downstairs. It’s where…” Aziraphale tries his best to steel himself, levering Crowley up so he can lean on him on the trip down the stairs. Behind them Dee straggles along, looking drawn out and terrified.

Downstairs wasn’t exactly what Aziraphale was expecting, though. It’s a huge circle, fit with candles and herbs and the whole lot. What surprises him the most is the number of texts. It’s almost a whole library, something to rival Aziraphale’s collection, all artfully organized in neat lines. There’s nothing outwardly grotesque about it, but there’s a heaviness in the air that makes Aziraphale’s hair stand on end.

“He—he bound you to this?” Aziraphale asks, but he already knows the answer. “What were the restrictions?” If Aziraphale knows how Crowley was bound, he can undo it. He’s surely learned enough about human magic in the last decade to do that much.

“I,” Crowley says, looking haunted as he stares at the circle. “I don’t know.”

“You… How don’t you know?” Crowley swallows hard enough that Aziraphale hears his throat click.

“I didn’t recognize what he did,” Crowley says after a tangible moment. “He did—a lot, and it was often, and it—hurt. I couldn’t—”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, stopping him. “It’s—okay, you’re okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“He hurt you?” They both turn to Dee, who’s standing at the edge of the circle. When she looks up at them, she’s pale with terror, face slack with it. “He told me that you needed to learn like I did and—”

“Dee,” Crowley sighs, his voice taunt. “Not now, please.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she says, sounding hurt at this. Whatever Crowley’s expression means Aziraphale files it away for later.

“Please. Dee, was it?” Aziraphale tries his best to look encouraging. “I need to know everything you know about this. Anything.”

“I,” She looks at the books, walking over to a table and running a hand over the smooth wood finish. “Dad never… told me anything like this. He’s teaching me but—”

“Try for me,” Crowley says, and tugs away from Aziraphale despite his protests. He stumbles his way to the circle, stopping just before the boarder of it.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” Aziraphale nearly hauls him back but Crowley tugs his arm away.

“Just—just trust me,” Crowley says, but he stops a second before his hand breaches the circle. “The only place he ever manipulated the terms of the magic was in this circle. I think just—just try it.”

“Then can’t we—you shouldn’t go _in_ it, we should destroy it—” Crowley cuts off his protests with a sharp shake of his head.

“I can feel the magic, like it’s beneath my skin. You need to— Dee, you need to try,” Crowley says, and abruptly his voice goes gentle. “You’re so much more talented than you know.”

“But, Anthony, I,” Dee stutters. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Crowley promises, and then pushes through the boundary of the circle.

Instantly, Crowley’s collapsing forward, falling to his knees in the circle. He doesn’t shout or scream, but his hands turn to tortured claws, nails digging into the wood of the floor.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale almost reaches into the circle himself, but he can feel the magic there, almost tangible with its intensity. There are some threads of it that he recognizes, but it’s so entangled that no matter how many times he tries the incantations to break them it doesn’t work.

He’s so absorbed in trying to break any part of the web of magic that he doesn’t notice Dee approaching the circle, lifting a hand to the invisible boundary of the circle. It’s only until the last second, a hairs breath of distance between Dee and the circle, that he does notice.

“Don’t!” Aziraphale shouts, jolting towards her. “You don’t know what that’ll—” But then Dee is reaching through the circle, tears in her eyes.

“Let him go!” She cries, “He’s always done everything you wanted, and you hurt him anyway!” And then everything flashes so brightly that Aziraphale stumbles back, blinded. When he can open his eyes again Crowley is contorted in pain, screaming now, as magic sloughs off him in waves. Aziraphale can see it, his aura a starburst of energy, bursting from its bindings.

It feels like hours, but it must’ve only been moments before it stops and Crowley slumps to the ground, the circle now inactive. Immediately Dee dashes forward, jumping to Crowley’s side, shaking him, calling his name. Aziraphale comes slower, feeling terror somewhere deep inside of him.

All this time Aziraphale’s been wondering why Crowley had never contacted him before, had seemed so resigned to living out his sentence here. But this is why. It’s this girl, and a family’s legacy of horrifying magic.

Whatever dark thing had been done here should’ve never been able to be completed without a spell, some kind of preparation, an expanse of time. Yet this girl just willed it away, just like that.

“Dee,” Aziraphale says, not quite taking his eyes off of her. With quick inspection Crowley seemed to be breathing and alive, but this all has taken one problem and given another. “How did you do that?”

“I,” Dee looks at Aziraphale, eyes watery and red with tears. Kneeling at Crowley’s side she looks helpless and weighed down, but Aziraphale has just seen evidence of the contrary. “I asked for it. Like I always do, and—and. I just asked.”

“Oh, Lord,” Aziraphale says, but Dee’s still crying, big, bubbling tears running down her cheeks. She keeps shaking Crowley’s arm, who lies there, unresponsive.

“He’s okay, right?” Dee cries, her voice mangled with tears. “I didn’t want to hurt him. I said I didn’t—”

“It’s alright, dear,” Aziraphale says, putting a hand on hers to still her incessant shaking. “He needs to rest, but Crowley will awaken later.”

Dee’s lip trembles. “You’re positive?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale lies, but really, it’s not much of a lie because Aziraphale needs Crowley to wake up and be alright. The alternative is inconceivable. “Can you show me someplace for him to sleep until then?”

“Um.” Dee sits back, letting her hands slip off of Crowley’s arm. She messily rubs away tears with her sleeve before standing. “Upstairs there’s—there’s his bedroom.”

Aziraphale carries Crowley upstairs, a drawn out, skeletal thing now that the magic took what it needed, and just barely fields all of the questions that Dee has.

“Please,” Aziraphale says, cutting her off midsentence. He feels a bit bad about it, but he’s feeling so much else, so much grief and anger and anxiety, that it’s easy to drown out. “I know you have questions, but I need a moment. Show me where Crowley can rest, dear.”

After that Dee quietly guides them upstairs to a neat bedroom, and Aziraphale tucks Crowley into the bed. He hesitates, then, watching the way Dee hovers at the edge of the bed. If the other angels come after him and see Crowley, let alone the girl, he would be in even more trouble than before.

At least last time, the attempted apocalypse, Aziraphale had senselessly believed in Heaven, but now he knows him and Crowley are on their own. And now they’ve got a human child wrapped up in all this. Whatever Heaven and the archangels would think of that he has not the faintest. He must stare for too long because Dee looks at him, fearful.

“Can I stay with him?” She puts one hand on the edge of the bed, like she wants to hold on even if he denies her. Allowing her to stay alone with Crowley isn’t something he wants to do, but…

“If you hurt him,” Aziraphale says, but he doesn’t get a chance to finish.

“I wouldn’t,” Dee says, looking at Crowley’s sleep slack face, pale and wan in a way that an ethereal vessel should never be. “I won’t.”

So Aziraphale has no choice but to leave. He wards the room as much as he can with no preparation, enough to mask Crowley’s aura from any lurking angels, and make his way downstairs to survey the damage. The open husk left of the house is immediately apparent as he makes his way down the stairs. It alarms him how little he cares. All he wants to do is go back to London with Crowley in tow, to never let anyone or anything near either of them ever again. He figures he ought to cover his tracks, as to not cause suspicion in the humans, to hide from Heaven…

He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing, honestly, and in all his time of scheming to get Crowley back he never wished for something more than to be at his side. Children, magic, murder, it’s all outside of what he planned for. He was expecting Hell, he was anticipating Heaven, but now he doesn’t know what comes next.

For the first time in his life, Aziraphale has permanently, irrevocably killed another being. A human, no less, and doesn’t know the shape of the consequences. Even after the body swapping fiasco, upstairs can certainly not ignore this.

He’s busy miracling the mess he’s made of the house away when he feels a twinge. Immediately follows an age old, instinctual panic that’s nearly overwhelmed by clenching rage. He is so _sick_ of this. All he wants to be is left alone, why won’t anyone let him and Crowley alone? It only lasts a moment, and the he’s back to drifting in the darkness of his fear, unmoored.

Gabriel blinks into existence next to him.

“Aziraphale,” he says sunnily, as if they don’t both know what he’s there for. He doesn’t even look at the ruined house around them. “Just got word. Couldn’t believe it.”

“Hello, Gabriel,” Aziraphale manages. He snaps his fingers and the west end of the house begins to knit itself back together.

“Impressive as it is, you can’t _kill_ people, Aziraphale,” Gabriel scolds flippantly. “There’s _paperwork_ , and if you’re down here then who’s to do it?”

“I’ll—yes, I’m sorry—I’ll handle it. Won’t happen again.”

“See that it won’t,” Gabriel says, fishing a phone out of his pocket. He’s recently discovered smartphones, and he spends most of his time poking at it instead of actually looking at Aziraphale. “Yes, good, now I expect to find that demon that was with the humans—who was it now, Crowley? Him. Word from up the chain says he’s been causing a right mess, so I expect him dispatched before your next report. Ta.”

“No,” Aziraphale blurted out before Gabriel could vanish. Bless it. His cursed mouth. Gabriel looked at him curiously, one eyebrow quirked in artful question. “Crowley is under my protection.”

Gabriel laughed, and then quieted when he realized Aziraphale was serious. “Crowley is a demon, not your—your pet,” he says, aghast.

“No,” Aziraphale agreed, eyes narrowing. “Not my pet.”

“You’re in no position to question, Aziraphale. It would be quite bad if we believed you were compromised, and if he’s tempting you to kill now—”

“He’s not!”

“Then he’s something to be dealt with.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting. He’s terrified, no question there, but he can’t let… he won’t let… “I will not let any harm come to Crowley any longer when Heaven continues to turn a blind eye to his suffering.”

“He’s a demon,” Gabriel scoffs. The phone is away now, at least, replaced with a healthy dose of scorn. “He’s your adversary and you want to protect him?”

“I would protect him with my life.”

“Really,” Gabriel says, his mouth curling. “You’d rather see to a demon cast down from God than listen to God Herself?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, swallowing hard. “I’m done following the ghost of the Holy’s word.” Gabriel just sputters for a moment, eyes flashing violet.

“First the apocalypse and now this,” Gabriel laughs, making two angry steps towards Aziraphale. He doesn’t back down. “You continue to tarnish God’s legacy.”

“I wonder—I wonder if you are truly a messenger of God’s anymore,” Aziraphale says. “Heaven has lost its way.”

Gabriel gapes, shocked, and his wings flare into existence. He towers over Aziraphale, a threat, glowing with holy light. “This is blasphemy. Why do you spend so much time fucking questioning us when you are so worthless? We’re giving you another chance. Just listen to orders!”

“No.” Without truly thinking about it Aziraphale summons his sword, coming to him where it lies beneath the rubble, mostly forgotten. His wings expand in turn, expanding to their full, glorious length. “I’m done listening to you.” Gabriel’s eyes flicker from Aziraphale’s eyes to the sword, hesitating, his wings drooping.

“You’ll Fall for this, you wretched thing!” And with that Gabriel popped out of existence, back to Heaven where he couldn’t bother Aziraphale. His parting words echoed in the empty room, and Aziraphale stood there, panting, the blinding holy righteousness within him slowly dying down back into the quiet hum he carries with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s just that Crowley’s always done just a good job at hiding what scared him the most that Aziraphale felt entirely out of his depth now. It’s always been Crowley, making that half step farther than Aziraphale was willing, encouraging him to make his own leap. He doesn’t know how to be a support for Crowley. He’s never had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry for the exorbitantly long wait... i've been feeling very self conscious about this story, and i needed to get in a fit of melodrama, apparently. previous chapters are edited, the first chapter heavily so, and this time, i swear to god, we're good

It’s blustering outside, windy enough to rattle the windows. Aziraphale hardly paid any mind to the weather since he first arrived in America, and he pays it even less mind with Crowley tucked safe in the hotel bed. Safe. And ever since they’ve arrived, he’s been asleep, leaving Aziraphale with only the rattle of the wind.

And the child.

Aziraphale’s not ready to think of her yet.

What’s more important was ensuring their safety. The first thing he did was miracling everyone and everything into leaving them alone. They were booked for a seemingly infinite amount of time. No one noticed them or knocked. The building would be safe and peaceful for however long their stay was. Then he set upon making wards to keep anyone else out.

After a moment’s thought he miracle food and other supplies for the child. She’s human, he remembers. She needs to eat and drink regularly to survive. For once in his life Aziraphale can’t even imagine doing such a thing. Just the thought sets his stomach roiling.

“Keep inside these rooms until told otherwise, please,” Aziraphale tells her as she watches, wide eyed, as things pop into existence around her. She catches a toothbrush that appears in front of her, blinking. Aziraphale spares her a scant two second glance before turning back to the herbs and candles he’s preparing for the wards.

He feels the girl staring at him for a suspended moment. “For how long?”

“As long as needed,” Aziraphale says, distantly hoping Crowley would recover fast because this girl was human, and they aged so perilously fast. It was not a matter that he concerned himself with at the moment. “If you need anything you can ask, but otherwise I request that you leave us alone.”

“Can I… see him? Anthony?”

In a flash Aziraphale whirls around, fury in his eyes. “You may not call him that,” he says, voice dark. “His name is Crowley.”

“… Crowley,” the girl agrees, staring. She’s made a lot of progress in not cowering from him, and he resents it. Aziraphale’s eyes narrow, dangerous.

“No, you will stay here and do whatever it is humans do in their free time, and you will not impede Crowley’s recovery.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Do you understand me?” Aziraphale understands, quite well, that he was being rude and terrifying the poor girl, but so be it. He’s enough to worry about even without her mysterious magical abilities, and if a bit of glowing and sharp words keep her in place then it’s necessary.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Splendid,” Aziraphale says, and spends the rest of the time setting up the wards in terse silence. It goes without a hitch, and the wards flaring to life. They weren’t the strongest, but it was something. It was comforting to have something on his side, an assurance.

By the time he was finished cleaning up, the girl is sitting on the couch in the living area, silent with the tv remote in her hand. Aziraphale pauses to stare for a moment before ducking into Crowley’s room. To think he’s so terrified and furious with a young girl who’s barely seen a breath of life.

He needs to focus.

It’s not hard to do when he sees Crowley tucked in bed, breathing slow. He looks sickly in a way that is not recognizable. This is not what happens to celestial beings. But here is Crowley, ravaged by a science experiment.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, sitting in the chair he’s arranged by Crowley’s bedside. He grabs Crowley’s limp hand and waits for him to wake up.

Luckily, miraculously, it doesn’t take long. Hours, maybe. A day or so at most. Aziraphale snaps from his thoughts when Crowley shifts, mumbling, and then moments later his eyes slip open.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes.

It takes him a few moments to get his bearings. He’s staring around the room, blank and confused, and Aziraphale watches the panic tick up on his face.

“Listen, dear, it’s alright. We’re in a hotel room for you to recover and—hey, no, no, lie down, it’s okay—” Crowley sits up despite Aziraphale’s hovering hands, eyes wide, looking savage and terrified.

“Aziraphale,” he gasps, his head pivoting as he frantically searches the room. “Where—he’ll come and—you’ve got to go—you can’t—” Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts Crowley’s breath is coming fast and he’s fighting against his weak limbs to get out of bed.

“He’s gone!” Aziraphale says louder than he intended, nearly upending his chair and startling Crowley so badly he stops talking, cutting off with a whimper. “He’s gone,” Aziraphale says quieter. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

Crowley’s strength is already fading him, despite how agitated he still is. Aziraphale guides him to lie down again, letting his knuckles run gentle lines against the curve of Crowley’s jaw.

“You—you’re okay?” Crowley’s panting from the brief exertion, his voice hoarse. There’s a disconcerting glassiness to his eyes, unfocused and feverish.

“I’m okay, darling,” Aziraphale says, cupping Crowley’s cheek and feeling, with an ache in his chest, as Crowley loses consciousness again, breathing out a little sigh against his wrist.

Aziraphale’s not sure what he was expecting. Maybe just confident Crowley back, ready to dazzle him and show him how to get on with everything. But Crowley was never very confident, was he. He’s always had this anxiety in him, now it’s just at the surface, ready to strike.

No, confident isn’t the right word. It’s just that Crowley’s always done just a good job at hiding what scared him the most that Aziraphale felt entirely out of his depth now. It’s always been Crowley, making that half step farther than Aziraphale was willing, encouraging him to make his own leap. He doesn’t know how to be a support for Crowley. He’s never had to.

But as Crowley swims in and out of consciousness, mumbling little questions, blindly reaching out for touch, Aziraphale realizes he has to. There’s fear in his eyes when he manages to awaken, barely tamped down when Aziraphale’s face comes into view. He jolts awake like he’s been shocked sometimes, heaving breaths as he thrashes about in the sheets. Aziraphale has no idea what he sees in the darkness, but he’s the only one left who can save him.

There’s no way that Aziraphale is going to let him suffer alone another day in his life. He’d do anything to keep him by here, by his side.

There isn’t much that he can do, though, the first couple days slogging by slowly. The moments that Crowley spend awake are few and far between, and Aziraphale finds himself exhausted by worrying and bored. Try as he might no book will hold his interest, his thoughts whirling about endlessly. It may not be something he finds himself doing often, but he must inevitably doze off because he wakes with a crash.

He stumbles up before he’s even sure what’s happening, blinking the hazy shape of Crowley into focus. He’s half sprawled onto the ground, his legs unable to support himself.

“Wards?” Crowley’s slurring, his breath is coming in a panicked pant. He scrabbles to his feet haphazardly. “What’s—what’s happening—where’s Dee—what’s coming?” He’s looking about, even as Aziraphale’s saying his name, hands outstretched. Even like this he looks ready for a fight.

“There’s nothing!” Aziraphale says, hands splayed to help but not to touch. “He’s gone. Dee’s in the other room. The wards are just a precaution so you can recover.”

“You’re—you’re okay?” Crowley’s eyes focus on Aziraphale, and he relaxes, ever so slightly.

“Heavens, Crowley—” Aziraphale manages, “Yes, I’m safe. Please lie down, darling.”

Despite Crowley’s burst of urgency, he’s still weak when Aziraphale guides him back into bed. He sags against the mattress as Aziraphale tucks him in, cozy and comfortable. It’s just that he doesn’t look too cozy or comfortable. Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts he still looks like he went through—whatever’s worse than Hell.

“Do you want anything while you’re awake? Food or water? I—I know it’ll do little to speed your healing but it could be a comfort—”

“No.” Crowley’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, his breath still irregular. When he opens them again the sclerae of his eyes are entirely hidden in amber. “Stay.”

Aziraphale stops where he’s hovering near the edge of the bed, watching Crowley who doesn’t quite meet his eyes. The bed is awfully big and curling next to Crowley for some undetermined amount of time has never sounded more comforting.

“I,” Aziraphale starts, hesitating. Crowley’s in no right mind to accept advances. Besides, Aziraphale’s perfectly capable of comforting Crowley and keeping the intimacy of their relationship as it was. “Here, let me.”

With a snap of his free hand Aziraphale miracles the chair flush with the bed. He sits, letting his fingers entwine with Crowley’s. “Alright?”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale for a long moment, long enough for him to fight the urge to fidget, before nodding. “Alright.”

Such an innocent touch felt so illicit, now. Have they always been so casual to touch? Aziraphale couldn’t remember. It was another lifetime ago.

Crowley soon began to feign sleep, and while Aziraphale couldn’t fathom why he felt the need to he couldn’t blame him. After everything there was so much to say but feeling Crowley’s warmth made it inconsequential. So when Aziraphale was fairly sure that Crowley was truly asleep he brought Crowley’s knuckles to his lips. His skin was sleep-warm beneath his mouth, and even though he felt it in his bones the words “I love you” could wait, even forever.

Crowley gets better quicker after that, spending more and more time awake. It’s only a few days before Dee is trying to sneak in to see him, and Aziraphale furiously chases her out. It’s not fair, he knows it’s not fair, but he just can’t help but selfishly hoard every moment that Crowley is awake to himself. The long expanses of time where he’s asleep feel like a thousand forevers to him, and it sends him drifting, unmoored.

Once, though, Crowley caught Aziraphale scolding Dee for trying to sneak in when he was away and Crowley’s stern disapproval made all that anger crumble away.

“She’s just a little girl, Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes, face drawn. “She lost her whole family.”

“She _hurt_ you,” Aziraphale chides, no, pleads, but Crowley just stares at him with that blank faced frown. “Yes, you’re right, I—I know.”

Crowley sighs, looking so weary its as if he could discorporate right there. There have been moments in the last few days where Aziraphale is surprised he hadn’t.

“She won’t hurt me anymore,” Crowley says quietly. “If she wants to come in, she can.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale manages, but Crowley stops him. It’s not an unkind gesture, done with a proffered hand that Aziraphale takes without hesitation. That’s not something done lightly, and Aziraphale feels weighed down by it all. The weight of Crowley’s hand on his terrifies him.

(Crowley’s trust and love feel like the weightiest things in the universe.)

“Don’t worry so much,” Crowley says, rubbing a thumb delicately against Aziraphale’s knuckles. “I survived without you before.”

 _And look where it’s gotten you_ Aziraphale thinks ruefully before banishing the thought. When Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hand he takes the opportunity to admire Crowley’s unhidden eyes, burning amber. There’s not a trace of fear in them, now.

“I was so late. I almost lost you,” Aziraphale says, low, with the threatening thunder of power he hasn’t put down quite yet. “It will never happen again.”

“You have me for forever,” Crowley says, a promise that Aziraphale wishes he could believe.

It doesn’t take long for Dee to try again. When she does it’s her usual approach, sneaking up to Crowley’s door as if Aziraphale doesn’t have enough senses to spare to track her without his eyes. _Silly humans_ he thinks _so shortsighted_.

When the door clicks closed behind her she seems to think she’s evaded him, but he hovers, waiting. If that girl lays as much as a hand on Crowley Aziraphale will do more than a mercy killing; he’ll raze this whole country to keep Crowley safe. There’s nothing left on this Earth that’s precious enough to keep Crowley away from him any longer.

“Hey.”

Dee startles badly, fumbling from where she’s trying to close the door silently. She gathers herself, standing straight with shocking dignity, fearless. He tries to give his best smile, but he can tell from her face that it doesn’t really work.

“You’re a… your name is Crowley, then?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, and he’s glad that it comes out neutral. He’s not _scared_ of her, certainly not, but he has no idea how she’s going to react to any of this. A human dipping into ethereal business is already enough work, let alone someone like Dee, so powerful and scared witless.

Then, there’s a part of him that knows he’s broken the rules and she’s a reminder of the whip.

“I, ah,” she visibly steels herself. “I have some questions.”

It sounds like a statement, but it’s voiced like a question, so Crowley nods. From the flutter of relief on her face it’s what she was waiting for. Distantly, he thinks she’s afraid of him, and it makes something clench in his chest.

“Um—how long,” she swallows, “How long did my father keep you?”

“Ah—you were a little kid. Maybe ten years. Aziraphale would be able to better answer that question, I think.” Dee’s eyes flick away, anxious.

“Aziraphale is—is the angel, right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says with a weak smile. “He’s giving you a rough time?” The smile slips when he sees the curve of her mouth tremble.

“You were always so kind to me.”

“You’re just a kid, sweetheart. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But the… the stupid tattoo, and the wine, you were always protecting me, and I knew, I just didn’t want to _think_ —”

“It’s okay, Dee,” Crowley tries placatingly, watching helplessly as she goes through the ever so familiar ritual of crumpling under stress. “We can both be hurt. We were both victims.”

“Maybe,” Dee whispers, and a tear makes it’s way down her cheek. She blinks hard, and when she speaks again, she sounds furious. “You wanted me to leave, then, this whole time?”

“Well,” Crowley says, hesitating. He senses a bit of a trap. She’s never talked to him like this before, and it makes his mouth taste like metal. “Yes.” Something passes over her face and he feels a jolt of fear, despite everything. She’s been so unpredictable lately, and Aziraphale killed her family. Perhaps he misjudged, and he has a passing thought of how long it’ll take Aziraphale to come help if she learned some magic tricks passed down from her father.

“Did you mean any of the things you said, then?” Is what she says instead. Suddenly, her voice doesn’t sound angry at all, it sounds forlorn. He stares at her, mouth agape for a moment.

“Of course I did. This isn’t your fault—”

“Then you can’t leave me now,” Dee says, through tears that make her words wobble. “If you meant those things then you can’t leave now.”

“Dear heart,” Crowley whispers.

“My dad’s gone and I know he hurt you and I’m s—sorry for not doing anything, I’ll try harder—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Crowley says, reaching out to where she’s standing, curled into herself, a few feet from the edge of the bed. There’s a moment where she hesitates, but then she’s running into his open arms, scrabbling up the side of the bed in her eagerness.

“I’m sorry,” Dee is saying, little hiccupping breaths beneath juddering sobs. “I didn’t know what to do, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“I know, dear heart,” Crowley whispers, running a hand through Dee’s tangled hair. “It’s okay.”

He holds her until she falls asleep in his arms, and it’s only then that he calls out to Aziraphale who guilty reveals he’s been listening.

“Sorry,” he’s whispering, edging his way into the room. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“You see that she’s,” Crowley pauses, not wanting to say _normal_ because Dee is anything but that. “She’s just a human and she’s hurting.”

“I know,” Aziraphale fidgets. “But Crowley, can we really afford to take care of a human?”

“I’ve done it for a while now,” Crowley says, frowning when Aziraphale sighs.

“I just mean—” Aziraphale looks away. “I may have attracted a bit of attention with my… smiting.” Crowley snorts.

“Did you, now.” Crowley says, apparently unbothered by this. “We’ve dealt with him, too, and I’m sure we can—”

“No, Crowley, ah,” Aziraphale says. “I may have threatened him.”

“You…”

“I think it’s going to be dangerous for us now that I’ve inadvertently turned Heaven against us, let alone with a magically gifted child who posted your picture on the _internet_ —”

“…threatened Gabriel?” Crowley laughs, grinning at Aziraphale. “What have these years done to you?”

“That’s not,” Aziraphale says, then quiets his voice when he remembers Dee sleeping. He glowers at Crowley. “Not the point. Please take this seriously.”

“I’m not abandoning Dee because it’ll be hard to keep out of Gabriel’s sight,” Crowley says shortly. “She needs me.”

“And I need you,” Aziraphale pleads, and Crowley is shocked to turn and see Aziraphale’s eyes brimming with tears. “Dee can find other people like her, but I can’t lose you again.”

“You’re not going to,” Crowley says softly. Unconsciously, he runs a hand through Dee’s hair. “Aziraphale, if Heaven is coming for us again we can’t run. It’s not going to work. It _didn’t_ work.”

“So, what, we’re supposed to wait for Gabriel to come and,” Aziraphale stops. “Crowley, he thinks we’re aberrations, but the reality is he can kill you. He can kill both of us.”

“He won’t,” Crowley says with certainty. “Have faith.”

“Faith—” Aziraphale sputters. “Faith in what? God? She’s—”

“No,” Crowley says, “Not necessarily with Her. With yourself, with me. With Dee.”

“How can you… believe that that’s going to be enough?” Aziraphale says slowly. “We can’t just assume we’ll figure things out—"

“It was enough to bring me here,” Crowley says, “Back to you. For a while I thought that was just as impossible.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, breathing out a laugh that sounds a bit more like a sob. “I see.” He presses a hand to his mouth as tears run over.

“Oh, come here already, will you?” Crowley gestures at the open space next to him on the bed. With Dee still in Crowley’s lap it’ll be a tight fit, so Aziraphale perches on the edge, trying to pull himself together.

“What about Dee,” Aziraphale starts only to have Crowley interrupt him again.

“There’s enough room for you both,” he says, budging over so that Aziraphale can sit next to him, Dee’s legs sprawling onto Aziraphale’s lap.

It’s then that Crowley feels safe again for the first time in years, with everyone he’s ever learned to love tucked close to him. He feels for Aziraphale’s hand, squeezing it tight, feeling the ache in his chest grow to a supernova.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” Crowley whispers, his head tucked against Aziraphale’s chest. “I owe you so many lunches.” Aziraphale’s laugh is weak and broken, but he squeezes his hand back.

“I missed you so terribly, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

For the hours that he got, Crowley soaks in the closeness. And then when Dee wakes up and stutters out apologies before going to bed, and Aziraphale bumbles off to give Crowley privacy, Crowley prays. It never used to be something he did often, not formally, but alone in Rameriez’s house he found himself praying often. And that night, he sat in the hotel and prayed again. He looked up at the Heavens, saying, “Send me a sign,” saying, “Please let us have this,” saying, “Show me how to make this right for the both of them.”

In the morning he wakes to a memo, but it’s not from God.

“Hell,” Aziraphale is saying, pacing in anxious lines back and forth. Crowley’s just managed to convince Dee to leave the room, but he knows she’s listening. “ _Hell_ is sending you memos about the—the apocalypse?” Crowley can’t stop looking at the memo in is hands. They must’ve forgotten to take him off the goddamned mailing list.

_Due to unforeseen circumstances, no second celestial war is coming. Instead, Beelzebub and the other demonic Noble Order has found allies within Heaven, and it’s with them that we are shedding our duties and eradicating humanity--_

“Adam,” Crowley says, wrenching himself away from the memo. “What about Adam?”

“Adam is a normal kid, he doesn’t have any of his powers,” Aziraphale says, then perhaps a bit distastefully, “Anathema tells me he plays rugby.”

“Well, what are your ideas, then?” Crowley snaps, trying to keep the hiss out of his voice. “Can’t exactly go our previous route.”

“Maybe I can reason with Gabriel. Apologize and get him to rescind his forces—”

“Didn’t we try that already? And then he tried to burn you in hellfire?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says sharply. “I know, thank you, but the only other alternative is to fight off all of Heaven and Hell on our own. Can’t exactly miracle them out of existence—”

“What about magic,” Dee says, peaking in from the door. “My dad’s books, downstairs… We could do what we did… to—to you to them and order them to stop.” Aziraphale’s face says all Crowley needs to know about how he feels about that plan, and Crowley feels similar but he swallows the acid of it back.

“Dee has a point, maybe we should bring those books to Anathema,” Crowley says, “See if she has any idea. Satan knows she had a better handle on the apocalypse than we did the last time around.”

“Did you really stop the apocalypse?” Dee looks at Crowley, who winces.

“Er, yeah, a bit,” Crowley says. “Listen, I’ll tell you about it on the way back to London.”

Turns out that was a lot harder than it seemed. After miracling up Dee another cell phone, Aziraphale called Anathema to tell her about the books, and about how they needed to take human transport because of Dee. Anathema surely regretted her involvement at that point, because the next few hours were trying to organize the three of them well enough for air travel.

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale says when Anathema mentions flying. “I’ve always wanted to go on one of those human airplanes.”

“Ah, wait—you’re going to need ID. I can’t imagine—” Anathema says, her tinny voice amplified on speakerphone. “Crowley, do you have a driver’s license?”

“A what?” Crowley asks. “I’ve been driving since the invention of the automobile, why would I need a license for it?”

If Aziraphale listened closely he could hear Newt laughing in the background, but he decided not to note on it.

“I never realized that you were this weird,” Dee says, fighting back a smile, once they board the plane.

“I’m not _weird_ ,” Crowley scoffs, smirking to himself as Aziraphale gleefully examines the fold out tray table. “If anyone’s weird, it’s him.”

“Well, he’s weird too,” Dee says, laughing. “When he said he was going to take some of my father’s books I didn’t realize he was going to take eighty-four pounds of them.”

“I couldn’t fit any more,” Aziraphale says morosely, “I would’ve liked to take them all.”

“Bookshop,” Crowley reminds Dee, then, after a moment. “Almost a library.”

“I would never let anyone _borrow_ a book of mine,” Aziraphale says.

“You hardly ever let anyone _buy_ books either, and at least they’d give them back later,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes.

“So before… this you were both just living in a bookshop in London?”

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, hesitating.

“Pretty much,” Crowley jumps in, feeling Aziraphale watch him. “Stopped the apocalypse, and then I stayed with Aziraphale here.”

Aziraphale is still staring at him when the plane lifts off, juddering and shaking. It’s only then that he looks away, grabbing at the armrests with white knuckles.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Aziraphale asks much too loudly. Dee just giggles.

“Yes, don’t worry.” Then they’re in the air and evening out.

“Good grief,” Aziraphale says.

“Better get comfortable,” Dee says, taking out her phone and pulling up a game. “It’s a long flight.”


	5. Chapter 5

Soho is much like the way Aziraphale left it, save maybe the pile of mail left at the doorstep.

“Oh, what a bother,” Aziraphale says, lugging his suitcase behind him. Crowley has a suitcase, a much smaller one, and with minimal grumbling he gatherers the heaping pile of letters as Aziraphale bumbles inside the shop.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says, opening his and Crowley’s suitcases to peruse the books he’s taken. He snaps and they all obediently sort themselves on a bookshelf that wasn’t there moments ago.

“Do you know where the Bentley is?” Crowley asks abruptly, standing stiffly in the bookshop, staring at the familiar sight. “The last I remember I was driving so, I—I’m not sure…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says brightly. “It’s in Mayfair. I’ve been checking on your plants. I—I hope that’s alright, I didn’t know what happened, but after a while they’d started wilting.” The look Crowley gives him is blinding.

“Oh,” he says, “Thank you, angel.” Aziraphale can’t quite tear his eyes away from the emotion in Crowley’s face, and it’s only Dee stumbling back into sight that tears them away.

“Where’s the bedroom? I can’t find a bed anywhere,” she says, squinting at them. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, “A moment, please.” Then he snaps, and a staircase appears, giving way with a loud creak as an upper floor settles in.

“Right,” Dee blinks. “Thanks.” Without another word she walks up the stairs, leaving them alone.

“I’m—gonna head to Mayfair for the moment. Pick up the car,” Crowley says, once they look back at each other, awkward in the awareness of it.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says. He tries not to say _be safe_ or _come back soon_ and instead says, “Would you pick up some crepes on your way back? It’s been ages.” Crowley just laughs, grinning at him.

“Sure, angel. Be back soon.”

He calls Anathema, who blearily talks to him above the cacophony in the background.

“Sorry,” she says after he’s asked her to repeat herself a handful of times. “We’re at the age where bedtime is a trial.”

According to the memo there’s two weeks before the impending war is set to start and the demons are expected to be in rank and order. It’s late enough in the night that Anathema agrees to look at her books and discuss the incoming apocalypse the next day. Besides, this way Aziraphale has enough time to peruse the material he’d gotten from Dee before trying to find a perfect spell tomorrow. If such a thing exists. Aziraphale isn’t sure a perfect anything exists when talking about the second oncoming apocalypse.

That’s the plan, anyway, but he doesn’t as much as open a book before he’s stopped by a curious letter he’s gotten in the pile of mail Crowley brought over.

The letter is addressed as _To the angel Aziraphale and demon Crowley_ , and it’s got no return address, no stamp, just their names written on the front. He picks it up and flips it over, shaking his head, and flips it over again. Then he puts the letter down and stands up from his desk. He has no idea what the letter holds, but he needs tea. Perhaps wine.

Crowley doesn’t get back until Aziraphale’s halfway through his second glass.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says as soon as he’s through the door, and it clearly startles him so much he almost drops the take out box of crepes.

“What,” Crowley stutters, “What’s the matter? Did something happen?”

“Open this,” Aziraphale says, exchanging letter with the box of crepes he gratefully opens. “It’s too much for me.”

“What the—what is this?”

“I don’t know, it just showed up,” Aziraphale says, “Oh, these are gorgeous, dear, thank you.” It’s a wonderful distraction as Crowley tears open the envelope, revealing a single slip of paper.

A YOUNG SAPLING GROWS TO TOPPLE AN EMPIRE RESTING ON ITS LAURELS; A KISS-- OF DEATH, OF NEW LIFE-- TO THIS HOLY LAND says the piece of paper in stark, perfect font.

“Good grief,” Aziraphale says in the way that most people swear. “A prophecy.”

“D’ya think it’s from Heaven?” Crowley asks, frowning. “Or are we banking our lives on one of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies again?”

“Anathema burned all the prophecies,” Aziraphale sighs, taking the paper from Crowley’s unprotesting hands. “Besides, this isn’t written like her.” The other side of the paper remains blank no matter how many times Aziraphale turns it over.

“How else is it written? It’s all mysterious and cagey, and who else do we know _besides_ for Agnes who would write something like that,” Crowley grouses.

“I haven’t the slightest,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb against the text. There’s something unnatural about the way it looks, but he can’t put his finger on what.

“And it was just—you said it was just sitting here?” Crowley’s got a little furrow in his brow, face serious.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale shrugs, putting the paper down in exchange for the box of crepes. He offers the box to Crowley who doesn’t even look at it. “But it seems like just some kind of prank, so why don’t we enjoy this wonderful treat you’ve—”

“It names us both as a demon and angel, it can’t be—” Crowley squints at Aziraphale. “Why aren’t you worried about this? You were at the rafters half a second ago.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, “I thought it was Heaven and some kind of threat. I didn’t exactly leave Gabriel on a good note. Besides, I can handle riddles.”

“Could be a threat,” Crowley says, taking the box from Aziraphale when its apparent he’s not going to give up on it, and walks into the little kitchenette attached to the backroom. “Topple an empire, it said. Topple, yeah, could be threatening.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call either of us an empire, though,” Aziraphale says, handing Crowley two plates he miracled up to serve the crepes. At first he only served one plate for Aziraphale until he’s glared down into serving another portion. Crowley had miracled them to stay the perfect temperature, and as soon as they’re sitting down at the little table Aziraphale’s digging in.

“But Heaven, maybe…” Crowley pokes at his food with his fork. For a long few moments Aziraphale watches him idle, staring down at the paper he’s placed on the table in front of him.

“I doubt it’s any bother, truly,” Aziraphale says. “For all we know it’s just a silly note left by humans.”

“Oh, come on,” Crowley scoffs. “You’re smarter than that. This—it’s—mentioning angels and demons and the _holy land._ It’s all a little convenient. It’s got to be a prophecy of some kind—”

“Okay,” Aziraphale says, lowering his fork from his mouth. “Well, we already know that the apocalypse is coming, so presumably something small is going to spark the topple the empire of humanity, the foretold apocalypse and all that, and Heaven will take over Earth as the _holy land_ once again.”

Crowley gapes. “I thought you thought it was a silly note from the humans?”

“Oh, whatever it is, this is not a conversation to have with such lovely crepes,” Aziraphale grouses, and looks as scandalized as only Aziraphale can. “Such a prophecy is not going to change the way we’re going to handle the last days—”

“A sign,” Crowley blurts, looking like even he’s surprised at what came out of his mouth. “I think it’s a sign.”

“A sign,” Aziraphale says slowly, “A sign of what?”

“God?” Crowley grimaces, an expression that only intensifies when he sees Aziraphale’s face. “I’ve been asking for Her guidance and is—maybe this is what She sent me.”

“Are you trying to—are you implying that _God_ sent us a letter?” Aziraphale puts down his fork with enough force for it to clatter loudly against his plate. “I asked for Her personal audience and Metatron turned me away, why would She do that _now_.”

“I—I don’t know, because the world is about to end if we don’t do something.”

“So where was She last time?” Aziraphale gestures to the paper. “What, we’re supposed to decipher a puzzle and save the word just like that?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Crowley scowls. “Don’t get like that. That’s pretty much what we did _last_ time.”

“No,” Aziraphale says primly, “Frankly, Adam saved the world, and we bumbled about like idiots.” Crowley snorts out a laugh that’s half derision and half mirth.

“Yeah, sure, okay, but I think—” he stops himself, eyes flickering down to the paper. “I can’t think of a single person that would describe the forces of Heaven and Hell as a _young sapling_.”

“Why do you believe God would send us a message like this?” Aziraphale says low, placatingly. “You cannot both believe that we can stop the apocalypse and that this is God’s word—”

“And how can both believe that She wants to destroy the world and that She’s abandoned us?” Crowley scoffs, glaring.

“I don’t—” Aziraphale stutters, “Believing in Her won’t stop Heaven or Hell, Crowley, I saw that personally.”

“I’m not asking you to believe in Her, I’m asking you to believe in _me_ —in us _._ This prophecy could be—“ Crowley just shakes his head. “You know, it doesn’t matter, we just— _I_ need to believe that we can stop this.”

“It’s—oh, Crowley, what if we can’t. It’s dangerous,” Aziraphale says, voice lowered in supplication. “And none of our problem, we’ve done this before, it’d be best if we just avoided it—”

Crowley barks out a laugh. “Why is it that _now_ your suggestion is to run away?” His face contorts, but then he sighs. “You had something to prove last time and… can’t you understand that this time _I_ do.”

Whatever is showing on Aziraphale’s face must disappoint him because Crowley goes to stand, quick enough to make the silverware clatter noisily. Aziraphale stops him, mind reeling. “Wait,” Aziraphale says breathless, his hand a firm grip on Crowley’s wrist. “Wait, it’s—it’s not—we’re on our side, remember?”

The stern expression on Crowley’s face fractures and he ducks his head. “Yes,” he sighs, “Yeah, I know.”

Crowley lets Aziraphale tug him back down. It’s only when Crowley is safely sitting again that Aziraphale feels comfortable saying, “I need you to be safe, is all, dear.” Aziraphale licks his lips, nervous. “I almost lost you once and—honestly, what did we do last apocalypse but get in the way. Our track record is not great and—”

“Our fault, honestly,” Crowley cuts off Aziraphale’s stumbling explanation, but grabs Aziraphale’s hand that’s still hovering on Crowley’s arm. “We should’ve just believed in Adam. It would’ve saved us so much time.”

“Perhaps, but I was quite busy being a right arse in the meantime,” Aziraphale says. “Believing that somewhere in Heaven there was justice.”

“Can’t be that unexpected, you know, being all,” Crowley gives a vague gesture with his free hand. “Angel and all. It’s what you do.”

“Do you really think She’s still watching?” Aziraphale’s voice goes gentle and fragile.

“Angel,” Crowley says, voice matching that gentleness. “I’ve never doubted She was there. Just couldn’t expect her to put the rest of ‘em in line.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Aziraphale sighs. “I’ve felt so alone, Crowley.”

“I’m with you,” Crowley says, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand gently before pulling away. “Forever, no matter what. But I also understand if you want to sit this one out.”

Aziraphale’s shaking his head before Crowley’s even finished with the sentence. “Never,” he says, and then smiles even though he feels the oncoming tide of anxiety. “Besides, I never got to use the sword.”

Crowley laughs at that, which is what Aziraphale was hoping. “Right,” he says, “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

Dee sleeps easily through the night, giving Aziraphale and Crowley the space and time to discuss the grim details of everything. It’s the first time they’ve really been able to truly talk since Crowley’s rescue, and despite themselves they find it almost stifling.

“Is it truly a good idea to force Heaven and Hell to back down like… like the way they did with you,” Aziraphale eventually whispers. They’ve both been nursing a bottle of wine, settling just somewhere along the wrong side of sober.

“I would,” Crowley starts then stops. “That kind of magic is not something that should be used on anyone.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, just as low as before. “Do we have another plan?”

Crowley shakes his head, taking his sunglasses off and tossing them onto a side table. “There has to be something else in one of these books,” Crowley says, pulling book after book out of the bag Aziraphale left on the ground near his desk. “Maybe there is a, ah, persuasion spell, or some kind of illusion—”

“Would that guarantee us, truly?” Aziraphale’s not looking at him. “I read a handful of books in the time you were recovering in the hotel and on the plane, dear. This plan to eradicate humanity has been brewing for millennia. Is there any trick that would really save us forever?”

“I am not using that spell on anyone,” Crowley snarls. “She did not give us autonomy to pry it away from another—”

“We tried to reason with them before,” Aziraphale says, louder this time. “If spellwork is out of the question, then our only other alternative is to fight them.”

Crowley gapes for a moment, recovering with a quick shake of his head. “Anathema might have an idea. We’ll have two witches, an angel and a demon. That has—that must be enough.” Crowley hands Aziraphale a book in a dismissive, way, intending to sulk in the pages of one of the tombs but he’s caught by the way Aziraphale’s eyes flicker to the side. Aziraphale plays with cover of the book mindlessly, running his thumb along the binding.

“What is your suggestion, then?” Crowley asks.

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale says as if he hadn’t been patiently waiting for it. “I just think that without Gabriel and Beelzebub then, well, perhaps Heaven and Hell would have no direction, and it would be in our best interest to, ah, as you might say, _dissuade_ them from taking to the enemy lines and—”

“Are you suggesting we _kill_ Gabriel and Beelzebub?” Crowley says a bit too loudly.

“Ah, well, not necessarily _kill_ , but perhaps make our message clear—what I am saying, dear, is perhaps there was more credence to your insurance, and if we are collaborating then we can expose the weaknesses of both—”

“You want to _threaten_ Gabriel and Beelzebub,” Crowley says, drier this time. “With holy water and hellfire.”

“Is that not what your prophecy says?” Aziraphale snaps. “Topple an empire. We take out our leaders and everything falls.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m no fan of either of them, but we can’t destroy them—”

“What _can_ we do, Crowley?” Aziraphale huffs. “You’re the one who wants to stay, but there’s not a single action that is acceptable to you—”

“I don’t know,” Crowley says, snapping his book shut. He covers his face with a hand, looking weary. Suddenly Aziraphale regrets all his hounding. “I can’t leave Dee and I won’t commit that kind of atrocity. There’s gotta be another way, and we’re going to find it.”

Aziraphale’s quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m sure Anathema will have some ideas when she arrives.”

And arrives she does, it’s barely past dawn when she’s knocking on the door of the shop, a coffee clutched in her hands.

“No demons or angels yet?” Anathema in lieu of a greeting. “I could hardly sleep, I can’t wait to see these books you’ve mentioned.”

“I thought you said you weren’t much of a witch anymore,” Crowley says, grabbing his glasses and slipping them on as she enters the shop.

“Oh, just here and there,” Anathema says good naturedly. “Too busy, you know how it is, with a kid.”

“A kid?” Crowley mouths to Aziraphale, but he doesn’t take notice.

“Thank you for coming, Anathema,” Aziraphale says, “Would you like some tea?” He goes about the process of taking her coat and showing her around the shop. Aziraphale’s gotten quickly sidetracked by showing her one of the more useless books on future telling that he’d been infatuated with, and Crowley stifles the urge to roll his eyes.

“Perhaps we should get to business,” Crowley hisses, “We are on a bit of a schedule.”

“Oh, dear, yes,” Aziraphale says, and hands Anathema a heaping pile of books. She blinks, staring.

“I hate to admit this,” Anathema says, “But I’m not sure what you want me to do, exactly.”

“Er, the thing is we need something to, how would you say, persuade our respective sides to stay, ah—”

“Do you have anything nonlethal to stop the apocalypse,” Crowley interrupts, “Is what he’s trying to ask.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale says, lightly. “Nonlethal. Manipulation, methods of convincing, ah, something threatening. The like.”

“Right,” Anathema says, blinking, and then she’s cracking open a book. They pass the next handful of hours interspersed with contemplative muttering.

(“Lord Beelzebub’s greatest fears? They came up with the concept,” Crowley says, slumped over a book. He glares balefully at Anathema. “Holy water, sure, I guess, but Hell would eat up the idea of them being a martyr.”

“That limits things in terms of leverage,” Anathema says dryly.

“It’s Hell, book girl. You’re not supposed to bargain with demons.”)

By the third day they’ve all contorted themselves in the misery of it. Aziraphale’s got the sword in his lap, staring at it, while Anathema stubbornly continues to flip through pages. They hardly stir when Dee interrupts them.

“How’s it going?” Dee asks, gazing into the study they’re all working in. Her clothes are wrinkled, and her hair tangled, bleary-eyed.

“As well as expected,” Crowley says, eventually, not looking up where he’s slumped on the desk.

“Hello, Dee,” Aziraphale says. Anathema barely looks up from her book, giving a brief smile to Dee’s hesitant wave.

“I can… the spellwork my father used, I think I can—”

“That’s not the route we’re going with,” Crowley says shortly, sitting up in the chair he’s sitting at. The glasses obscure his face well enough, but Aziraphale knows how much he doesn’t want to be having this conversation with her.

“If you don’t have any other ideas, though, then it’s better than the apocalypse, right?” Dee’s just trying her best, but Crowley’s right, she’s just a kid. Still, she hesitates in her place in the doorway when she sees the tension rise in Crowley’s shoulders. At the anxious moment of silence Anathema looks up from her book.

“What spell is she talking about?”

“Nothing, dear,” Aziraphale says shortly, but Crowley shakes his head, sighing.

“A binding spell,” Crowley says. “A strong one. You can make the victim do whatever you ask of them.”

“That’s perfect, what’s wrong with—oh.” Anathema snaps her mouth shut when both Aziraphale and Crowley turn on her harshly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley grinds out, and then stands abruptly. “Let’s just focus on getting Hell out of the picture. Heaven’s got a few more moving parts to it, you know, with God and all and—”

“The spell could work and then you’d never have to use it again,” Dee tries again, and Crowley hisses, furious, under his breath.

“Please, Dee,” Crowley says tightly. “I said no. We’re not having this conversation.”

“Why not?” Dee asks, frowning back at him. “It’s been days and if you could just do something then we could all go back to living our lives—”

“ _Dee_ ,” Crowley says sharply.

“ _What?_ ” Dee says, scowling now. “You have nothing, and you’re miserable. If you don’t want to do it, then _I_ can do it. We can go down to Hell and it’ll be over like _that_.”

On the last word, Dee snaps, and Aziraphale notices the power of it half a second before it happens. It’s not nearly enough time to react, so in the moment between heartbeats suddenly they’re all standing in a crowded, mildewy storage room. For the first couple seconds Aziraphale’s convinced he’s hallucinating, dumbly standing there with the sword still gripped in his hands, then Dee’s laughing, manic.

“Wh—whoa,” Dee says. “What—where are—”

“ _Shh,_ ” Crowley hisses, eyes wild and blown out in amber. He grabs both Anathema and Dee, the two closest to him, and hauls them further behind some boxes. It’s stiflingly hot in here, rank and filthy, but Aziraphale obligingly crouches behind the boxes even when the dust makes his eyes water.

“What’s happening, dear?” Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, feeling the rough tension in him.

“Did you do this?” Crowley hisses, right in his face. It’s preposterous, Crowley knows Aziraphale isn’t strong enough to teleport anywhere other than Heaven, let alone with passengers.

“Of—of course not, Crowley—are we—are we in Hell?” Aziraphale gapes when the facts start to align. “If _you_ didn’t then who—”

“I felt—I _felt_ that,” Dee whispers, staring at her hands with an expression approaching panic and euphoria all at once. “Is that what it’s like?” She directs this question to Crowley who just mutely shakes his head, lost, overwhelmed. His breath has begun to come a little too quick.

“Okay, okay,” Anathema says, commandeering, and brushes Dee and Aziraphale away. She looks at Crowley in the eyes, undeterred by the glasses. “Are we in danger?”

“Nnhh, ah, we will be,” Crowley says, eyes flickering to the door. “They’re not gonna let two humans and an angel out of Hell. I’m sure they can sense us right—”

“Listen to me,” Anathema cuts him off. “Breathe. Come on.” She exaggerates her breathing, and shakily, with wild eyes, Crowley imitates her. The trembling stops, somewhat.

“Do you know where we are?” Anathema asks. “Do you know how to get to the exit from here?”

“Er,” Crowley looks around as if he’s seeing it all for the first time. “Maybe. Storage. But there’s a lot of places for storage and we could be anywhere—”

Aziraphale’s opened one of the boxes revealing penned demotivational posters that looked very medieval and definitely prior to the printing press. “This storage facility looks like it hasn’t been touched in a while. Where would something go undisturbed for so long?”

The seriousness of the situation has settled on Dee now, the excitement of her new power wearing away in the anxiety of the room. “What’s happening? Are we going to be okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine,” Aziraphale says, shortly. He puts a hand on her arm, briefly, giving her a tense smile when she looks at him. “Do not attempt to do anything like that again until we’ve figured things out more.”

“Yes,” Dee says, voice small. “Sorry.”

Crowley and Anathema plan a rudimentary escape route, hoping that Crowley’s remembered the layout correctly.

“I’ve hardly visited Hell in the last millennia,” Crowley says, grimacing. “I don’t know—this might all be decades inaccurate.”

“We have to risk it. We can’t stay here forever,” Anathema says, though she’s pale with fear. They huddle at the door, nervous.

“Dee, stay with Aziraphale,” Crowley says, stern and serious. “No matter what happens just stay together and try to get back to the surface. I can try to convince—”

“You are _not_ staying behind, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, lowly.

“Just get back to the surface, please,” Crowley says, imploringly. He grabs at Aziraphale’s hand for a second, giving it a squeeze. They share a meaningful glance, full of so many words unspoken, and before Aziraphale can manage to come up with what he wants to say next Crowley’s throwing him out of the room. Then it’s all that he can do to follow Crowley’s lead.

It’s fairly close to what Crowley expected, and they make fairly good progress undetected. It isn’t until they start to get to the more populated parts of Hell that it’s tougher to proceed, Crowley abruptly shoving them off path to dive out of the sight of some grumbling demons.

“We’re really in Hell?” Dee whispers to Crowley when they’re stopped, her voice a shaky whisper. It’s clear that the reality of this is settling upon her, and she doesn’t seem to be handling it well.

“Yes,” Crowley says, trying not to break his concentration. He wonders if they can sneak through the back of the old paperwork filing office. No need for it now that there’s computers, but it’s kept around for the reminder.

“Is my father down here?” Dee asks, “Is my sister?” That stops Crowley in his tracks, gaping at Dee for a moment.

“Ah, I—” Crowley says. “It’s not—”

“We can talk about it when we get back to the bookshop,” Aziraphale says shortly, and Dee nods, somewhat defeatedly, obligingly following along.

They’ve almost made it to where Crowley had described the exit to be—a long hallway and a neat set of elevators upward—when a door opens and Beelzebub and Hastur stumble out, hotly debating something. Crowley stops in his tracks, making Anathema bump into him. Aziraphale is far enough back that he has the bare milliseconds needed to duck away in time, hiding in a dip in the hallway.

“Oh fuck,” Crowley whispers, and then Beelzebub is turning to them. There’s a moment of pause that’s nearly tangible.

“Crowley,” Beelzebub hums. “You’ve been misssing some pretty important meetingszzz, but I see you’ve brought szzzome company.”

“Hey, Beelz, ah, yeah, about that,” Crowley says, unmoving as if he’s been frozen there. “You see, I just need to pop back to Earth real quick and then we can catch up, promise, I just have these—”

“Two humans,” Hastur names off, grinning, feral, “Interesting.”

“Go,” Crowley whispers over his shoulder, glancing at Anathema out of the corner of his eye. “Now.”

Dee and Anathema have edged around them by a couple steps when Hastur grabs Dee by the arm, wrenching her in the air. “I don’t think so,” he says.

“No!” Crowley says, lurching forward, only stopped by Beelzebub putting themselves between Crowley and Dee.

“We’ve been talking with Heaven about thiszzz apocalypszzze busisnesszzz,” Beelzebub says, cocking their head at Crowley. “What’szzz one more human, anywayszzz?”

Hastur leers closer to Dee, his rancid, rotting breath in Dee’s face and she screams, terrified. Furious, Crowley wrenches away from Beelzebub, throwing himself at Hastur. He gets his hands on him, imprecise and frantic. It’s a mindless grapple of limbs, and Dee goes stumbling to the ground.

Crowley only has a moment to celebrate his victory before Hastur has a knife at his throat. He’s never been a fighting kind of demon, more inclined to slither and snakes his way out of things. The knife digs deep into his shoulder before he can wrench it away from Hastur, and by then he’s been overpowered, and Hastur crushes him against the wall with enough force to make him gasp.

“With the apocalypse coming you don’t need this corporation anymore, right?” Hastur says, wrapping his hands around Crowley’s neck. All Crowley can do is wiggle uselessly, hands clawing at the ones around his throat.

“Stop!” Anathema tries to pull him off of Crowley, but Beelzebub shoves her away. They loom over her, approaching both Dee and Anathema with enough ferocity that they both stumble back a few steps.

“I don’t think you need to be messzzzing with the Lord of Hell,” Beelzebub hisses, something wild and angry passing on their face. “But if you insiszzzt.”

It all happens in just a moment, and Aziraphale spends that moment staring at the gleam of his sword, before stepping out of his hiding place. He lets his wings spread, catching the attention of Beelzebub and Hastur who gape at him.

“Let him go,” Aziraphale shouts, approaching Hastur, sword in hand. Crowley’s beginning to go limp in his hands, head lolling.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes, and Aziraphale doesn’t care what Hastur plans to do because he’s thrusting the sword into Hastur’s side. He howls, letting go of Crowley immediately, who falls to the ground, coughing.

Without sparing a second Aziraphale whirls on Beelzebub, who has the self-respect to take a half step back. “Take this as a warning,” Aziraphale says, wings flaring out. He can feel the holy glow on him, surely attracting the attention of all of Hell, but he leans into it, needing this to count. When he looms closer to Beelzebub, they flinch back, squinting. “Heaven is no ally of yours. And if you meddle with angels every one of you will be smote.”

Out of the corner of his eye Aziraphale sees Anathema and Dee helping Crowley to his feet. He also sees Hastur on the ground, curled around a bleeding wound.

“Do you understand me?” Aziraphale booms, and Beelzebub hisses, spitting at Aziraphale in fury. Aziraphale leans the blade of his sword closer to them, glowering.

“Iszzz that what you came here for? To threaten me out of our planszzz for apocalypszzze?” Beelzebub hisses, “A single angel?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, “I’ve come to bargain.”

The ride back up to the surface is silent, eerily so, taunt with words unsaid. Crowley and Aziraphale are a step too close, hovering just in each other’s space.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says eventually, quiet.

“Hush,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “There’s so much else we need to worry about.”

“Angel, you just gave the Lord of Hell a holy weapon, that’s—”

“And now it will defend us and the rest of humanity a lot more effectively than I ever could wield it by deterring Hell,” Aziraphale says, finding Crowley’s hand and squeezing it. “We must worry about Heaven, now. And Dee.”

At the mention of her name Dee snaps to awareness, looking up at Aziraphale and Crowley with wide eyes. She shakes her head, looking pale and drawn out. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

“Oh, sweetie,” Crowley says, trying to catch her eye but she glances away, ashamed. She lets him tilt her head back to look at him all the same. “It’s alright.”

“They hurt you,” Dee says, putting a hand gently over the impromptu bandage they’d used around Crowley’s sluggishly bleeding wound. Injuries made by magical weapons are difficult to heal by miracle, and they had just been grateful it hadn’t been serious. But miraculously, Dee touches his arm and her hand begins to glow.

She yelps, wrenching her arm back, but whatever happened is done. Crowley blinks at his arm, waving Aziraphale off who worriedly frets next to him.

“It’s—she healed me,” Crowley says dazedly, untying the bandage as proof. The once deep wound is now healed over, a barely pinkish scar.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” Dee says, deathly quiet. She stares at her hands like she doesn’t recognize them. “I keep—we were down there, and I keep thinking things that didn’t make sense, like memories—I feel funny, and this keeps happening—what if I hurt someone?” Aziraphale and Crowley share a meaningful glance.

“We’ll figure it out,” Crowley says, soothingly. “One thing at a time, darling.” He runs a hand through her hair, now even more tangled than before. He realizes that she hadn’t even eaten breakfast before this. She must be starving. He looks up at Anathema, who’s watching them silently. “How are you doing, book girl?”

“Well,” Anathema says, “It’s one thing to believe in Hell, and another to visit it.”

“It’s not an experience I necessarily recommend,” Aziraphale says lightly.

“If I’m honest, I’m glad to have helped, but I think I’m really overdue for home,” Anathema says with a shaky grin. “Newt must be frantic.”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale says, taking her hand and patting it consolingly. “I’m so sorry, dear, for dragging you into this all—”

“Oh, nonsense,” Anathema says, “That was one of the coolest experiences of my life, but also, I’m exhausted. None of you plan your adventures for humans.”

Dee laughs a little bit, ducking her head against Crowley’s arm. “You think that’s funny, huh?” Crowley smiles, hugging her close again. “I promise lunchtime will happen before anymore apocalypse talk. How does fish and chips sound?”

It’s nearly dusk when they emerge, the sun setting in a smattering of pastel colors, nearly the whole day gone since Dee teleported them. Anathema took her own cab home with a promise to call, and with the tension gone the cab ride is tired and quiet.

“Are you okay?” Crowley asks, nudging Dee where she’s blearily slumped in her seat.

“Yeah,” she says, but she’s dangerously pale. She presses a hand to her forehead. “My head just hurts.”

“It’s been a long day,” Crowley says, soft and consoling. “Food and rest and you’ll feel all right again.”

“Yeah,” Dee agrees, but there’s something long and distant in her eyes. Aziraphale decides not to comment on it. When they get to the bookshop she gratefully slumps on the couch inside, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale to go fetch food by themselves. Crowley’s promise to return soon goes unanswered.

“We’ll figure out what’s happening to her,” Aziraphale says, if only to stop the querulous silence brewing around Crowley. “Perhaps there’s something in one of the witchery or prophecy books about her. If Anathema knows about it, she would’ve said something, but perhaps she has—”

“Do you remember the prophecy?” Crowley asks. He’s got his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, walking fast enough that Aziraphale has to nearly jog to keep up. “Young sapling—it’s—I think it’s Dee.”

“What?” Aziraphale says, nearly stumbling in surprise.

“I think She sent me Dee.”

“No,” Aziraphale says a bit too loudly. There’s a head or two that turn in reaction. “Absolutely not, that is ridiculous—”

“And what if it _is_? She’s got magic, now. Why else would she have survived your holy smiting unless she was meant to, angel?” There’s something about it that sends a chill down Aziraphale’s spine; to think that a human, a young, foolish one at that, would have the weight of God’s will on her shoulders.

“I don’t know, by mistake, by accident, to bother us—” Aziraphale sees Crowley’s stern expression and cuts off sharply. “Oh, this is preposterous, Crowley. The Almighty didn’t send us a _child_ to save us.”

“It’s happened before,” Crowley says with a casual shrug that makes Aziraphale nearly bristle.

“This is not a _joke_ , Crowley.”

“I know!” Crowley throws his hands up in exasperation. “I’ve believed in this kid this whole time while you’ve been questioning her, chasing her out—”

“She’s _dangerous_ ,” Aziraphale snaps. “And if you truly cared for her you would not be wielding her as a weapon.”

Crowley’s expression is calculatedly bland. “I believe in her,” Crowley says. “Whatever is happening I believe in her and—and I know she’s the key to stopping Heaven.”

Aziraphale just shakes his head. “Giving away the sword was just a way to stall for time, Crowley. We need more of a plan than depending on a human girl with unexpected powers.”

“Well, I’m waiting for your grand plan,” Crowley grouses, shoving into the restaurant they’d ordered food from. Aziraphale decides to leave it as they’re making their way to the counter, sparing the public of their squabbling. He catches up to where Crowley’s lent on the counter, waiting for the waiter to return with their order. The person who comes out of the kitchen isn’t a waiter.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says coolly, quickly flanked by a handful of angels Aziraphale has never seen before.

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley says, stumbling back a few steps which makes Gabriel smile.

“What is it about you goons,” Gabriel says conversationally as the angels move to block the door. “That every time you’re around you fuck up our plans?” When Aziraphale looks all the humans are gone from their tables, their meals half eaten, glasses half full.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale starts airily, but he’s stopped when Gabriel levels a glare on him.

“All of Heaven and Hell planned to destroy humanity, enact the Almighty’s plan once and for all,” Gabriel says, his voice getting louder. “But then Hell cancels. Saying an angel bartered with a holy sword.”

“She gave it to me,” Aziraphale tries, taking a step back. “The sword was mine to give away.”

“And when I look down at Earth I see you with another angel mucking around with your demon lover.”

“Gabriel—”

“So _tell me_ ,” Gabriel booms, and the angels lurk closer, closing in the circle around Crowley and Aziraphale. “What am I to think about our guardian of the Eastern gate now? Not just a thoughtless and gratingly optimistic subordinate, but instead a malicious, conniving _bastard_.” The final few words are punctuated with firm steps forward, edging almost too close for comfort.

“I only did what I thought was right,” Aziraphale says, eyes growing wide and panicked. He backs up far enough to bump into the bar behind him. His hands are up, placating, even if he knows it means nothing.

“You did what was right,” Gabriel says blandly. “I did you a favor, Aziraphale, cleaning up your little _mess_ back in America with those humans. If word made it all the way up the chain, then She would never agree with any of the shit you’ve done. “

“You don’t have any right to say what She thinks,” Crowley hisses, “Aziraphale is a better representation of Her will than you’ve ever been.” Gabriel’s gaze whirls to Crowley, purple eyes blazing. The angels around him crowd him further, close enough to entirely eliminate escape.

“What does Aziraphale know of Heaven after six millennia of absence?” Gabriel says, lurking towards Crowley. “You’ve been tempting him, demon, but we’re enacting God’s plan one way or another.”

“Please, Gabriel, this isn’t necessary,” Aziraphale pleads, even as Gabriel tells the other angels to grab Crowley. Aziraphale talks over Crowley’s shouting. “Have you—you might consider the idea that Her ineffable plan doesn’t include war. Last time we—"

Gabriel cuts him off by grabbing his collar, shocking him silent. “Last time,” Gabriel says, “Was a warm-up. Heaven procured some allies.”

“The demons,” Aziraphale gasps, “You see now, they were not as they seemed, God must not have condemned them to eradication, perhaps that you can see—” Gabriel gives Aziraphale a rough shake, stopping him again.

“Demons,” Gabriel says. “Are convenient. I thought you understood that.” When he grins again it’s more like a grimace, something dark and angry in there. “Now, where’s the other angel?” Gabriel asks.

“What?”

“The other angel,” Gabriel hisses, shoving Aziraphale into the arms of another angel. He glares over to where Crowley’s pinned, questioning.

“You’re about six thousand years too late,” Crowley says, and Gabriel growls.

“Why don’t you know?”

“What the bloody hell are you on about?” Crowley snaps, only to get roughed up in response.

“The angel—fine,” Gabriel says, putting a hand to his face. “You don’t have to tell us. We’ll find them. And this plan-- you’ll all burn.”

“There is no plan,” Aziraphale says, “Heaven’s machinations are no concern to me.”

“Yet,” Gabriel says, almost shouting now. “You continue to _conspire_ and _mettle_.”

“We just want to be left alone!” Aziraphale says, wrenching ineffectively against the angel holding him. “This world has so much to love, what is so wrong with realizing that?”

“Abandoning your duty, Aziraphale,” Gabriel snaps. “God commanded—”

“ _She_ did not command to destroy innocents,” Aziraphale says tightly, then quieter. “God wouldn’t want this, Gabriel. Let—we can find another way.”

“You’re in no position to say what She wants,” Gabriel says, and starts making his way out of the restaurant.

“I know you haven’t heard from Her in millennia either,” Aziraphale shouts before he can make it very far. “Taking it out on the humans won’t solve anything. There’s plenty I can show you about them that is remarkable and She has been absent for—“

“Ohoh,” Gabriel laughs, a manic note in his voice. He wheels around and his eyes are a stark violet. “You might’ve managed to compromise Beelzebub, but you’re not trying your tricks on me.” Gabriel wrenches Aziraphale from the angel who’s holding him, hauling him up so his toes don’t touch the ground.

“We just want peace,” Aziraphale gasps, and he can barely hear himself over the roaring of blood in his ears. Distantly, he can hear Crowley swearing in the background.

“It’s too late for peace,” Gabriel says, shaking him so his head jostles dizzyingly. “We’ve been spokespeople of God for six millennia, and today is not the day you deem us heretics!”

And with that both Gabriel and Aziraphale blip out of existence.

“No!” In the moment confusion Crowley wrenches himself from the angels’ grasp, stumbling to where Aziraphale just was. He wastes a breath looking about at all the angels staring at him, stunned, before his gaze turns upward. Without a conscious thought his wings flare into existence, and he throws himself through the glass window, sending glass scattering everywhere.

In Heaven Aziraphale and Gabriel crash to the ground in an ungainly heap.

“That was awfully rude,” Aziraphale says, coughing. “Here we are being civil, and you’re throwing me about like—grk.”

“We had an order,” Gabriel is saying, grabbing at Aziraphale again. “We listen to Metatron, we follow the plans, and there’s justice in the world. What was so wrong about that?” Aziraphale tries to pry himself out of Gabriel’s grip, but Gabriel is bigger and stronger, and easily overpowers him.

“Tell me!” He laughs, that same hysterical note. “God won’t cast you down no matter what crazy shit you do. I thought that was the point. You follow the rules or else you get the fire and brimstone, unless it’s _not_.”

Aziraphale weakly grabs at Gabriel’s hands that are wrapped around his neck. “It’s okay to question Her,” he manages, “You can still love Her even if you don’t understand.”

“Don’t,” Gabriel shouts, slamming Aziraphale down hard enough to make the breath wheeze out of him. “Patronize me!”

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale’s whispering, as if to not anger Gabriel again. “I understand. It’s okay.”

“I am faithful to Her,” Gabriel says, but it sounds more like he’s pleading. His head is bowed so that Aziraphale can’t see his face. “I am nothing like you.”

“We can’t kill to show our love,” Aziraphale whispers, “That’s not honoring Her.”

Gabriel stands up, and after a slow moment Aziraphale sits up as well. He doesn’t dare get to his feet, because Gabriel is shaking his head, pressing a hand to his face.

“No, no, you don’t get to bend the rules now,” Gabriel says. “If She won’t make you Fall, then I’ll do it.”

Before Aziraphale can do anything, Gabriel is grabbing him, and he’s crashing through the glass windows of Heaven. He falls from Heaven.

He’s Falling.

And so the demon Crowley flies up and up to the boundary of Heaven. Under the strain of wings unused for millennia Crowley finds his angel and with burning ozone hot in his lungs he holds tight as they fall together.

No human has ever seen an angel fall from Heaven, but some especially careful observers in central London might see a bright streak of fire cut across the sky. It’s just a second, a breath of a moment, so quick that no one would think a second thought, and that was it.

And when the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale awaken on Earth they awaken unlike before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter! we're at the last of it. thanks so much for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale wakes to a strange, unrecognizable fuzziness. He rarely sleeps, so this should’ve immediately clued him into something being from, but for a moment he just lay there wondering about the strange lightness he felt within himself.

Then he felt something move and he realized Crowley lay beneath him, his arms still limply wrapped around his waist.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tries to sit up and immediately regrets it, clenching his eyes tight against the dizziness. He feels Crowley’s hands clutch weakly at his shirt.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes, groaning as he shifts.

“What…” Aziraphale starts to ask, and he forces himself up to look around. “What did you do.” The last thing he remembers is Gabriel and Heaven, but they’re clearly on Earth now in a smoldering crater that’s bracketed by fallen trees. “Crowley.”

“Told you,” Crowley says, still not opening his eyes. His sunglasses are cracked. “I’m with you no matter what, angel.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale touches Crowley’s shoulder. “Gabriel, he—I think I…”

“No,” Crowley says through a sigh. He rubs a hand over his face. “You didn’t Fall. You would know. It… hurts.”

Aziraphale thinks of Gabriel threatening him in Heaven. “Yes, well,” he says, pausing. His wings furl obligingly into existence when he wills them to, pristine and white as ever. He contemplates a wing tip for a moment, snapping his fingers and catching the pair of sunglasses he miracled up. “Then… what happened?”

Crowley’s still laying on the ground, unmoved from where he woke.

“You’re… alright, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asks, holding the glasses in his lap. Crowley’s staring up at the sky through the broken lenses with a blank expression on his face.

“You can feel the Almighty, right?”

“Ah, yes, well, to an extent—all angels can feel, ah, Heaven’s energy, I guess you could say—”

“I can feel it too.”

“What?”

Crowley sits up and takes the glasses from Aziraphale’s limp hands. With a snap his old glasses are gone, and he puts the new ones on. They’re just ever so different, smaller, nosepiece more prominent.

“Is this commentary on my fashion, angel?”

“What did you do that made it so that you can feel Heaven’s light?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley makes an aggravated gesture, “Demons had to lay siege to Heaven they had to get there _somehow_ and just up it all went, _whoop_.”

“You don’t just _whoop_ up to Heaven, Crowley," Aziraphale says.

“Whatever happened I feel like an overcharged battery,” Crowley says, sitting up. He twists his neck side to side and gets a series of satisfying sounding cracks. “Whatever you did up there made a whole lot of holy energy.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Aziraphale protests wearily. “I just wanted to get home and thought about, ah, well—“

Suddenly Crowley cuts him off, scrambling to his feet. “Oh, fuck, _Dee_.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says as Crowley hauls him to his feet. “Oh, dear.” Then he stops Crowley before he throws himself into the air again and flies back to Soho. “I… Let me try something.”

Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s arm and there’s a second before where Crowley says, “Angel, that’s impossible—”

And then they’re in the bookshop with Dee.

“Oh, you’re back!” Dee says, lighting up. Any sign of earlier weariness is gone. She’s nearly glowing. “There are people here that say they know you.”

In the bookshop there’s six angels, including Uriel, Michael and Sandalphon. None of them look pleased.

“Oh fuck,” Crowley whispers.

“Michael,” Aziraphale nods tightly when she approaches him.

“Don’t hurt her,” Crowley hisses, eyes flicking from angel to angel. “She’s no threat to you.”

“Anthony?” Dee asks, looking around. “They just said they were here to talk to you.”

“Yes,” Uriel says. “We need to talk Aziraphale.” They look at Crowley scathingly, nodding a terse greeting. “Crawly.”

“Ah, Gabriel made it clear that talking wasn’t an option,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting.

“Dee,” Crowley says, slowly making his way into the bookshop. “Please come here.” She does, none of the angels making any move to stop her, though they all keep a close eye on her.

“What’s going on?” She asks the moment she’s in his arms.

“Remember—er, remember those people I mentioned we disagreed with in the past,” Crowley whispers to her, quiet enough that the other angels can’t hear. “They’re very angry with us for doing things differently.”

“Oh,” Dee says, and nods understandingly. She doesn’t whisper like him. “They’re like Dad.”

“Enough,” Michael says, gesturing to the three angels waiting. “Get them; we’re taking the girl back to Heaven.”

“No!” Aziraphale yells, but he’s thrown against a bookshelf with enough force to make the world spin. They must tear Crowley away from Dee, because he can hear him swearing.

“Don’t fucking hurt her, you bastards,” Crowley snarls, but Dee doesn’t fight it as the angels move towards her. She looks up at them with unsettling calm, watching them as they approach.

“I’m sorry it hurts,” Dee says, staring up at the angels. There’s a glowing light that’s begun to emit from them, putting everything in harsh contrast. “But don’t be angry with them, they’re only trying to help.”

“Dee!” Crowley yells, trying to wrench away but the angel who grabbed him wrestles him to the ground.

Sandalphon swings his sword at Dee’s outstretched hand, and at the point that they connect time freezes, and blinding light washes over everything. The angels stumble back in a haphazard group, blinking their vision back, and in a deafeningly loud clatter Sandalphon’s sword clatters to the ground.

There’s a gasp. Aziraphale’s sure if it was from Crowley or not, because Dee is still standing there, unharmed. There’s not a hair out of place.

“What—” Uriel stumbles back another step once they see Dee standing peacefully and Sandalphon’s sword smoldering on the ground. “How?”

“Don’t hurt them,” Dee pleads, looking up at Sandalphon who’s regarding her in distant fear. “Whatever upsets you so much Anthony can help. He always does.”

Michael looks at Crowley, still pinned on the ground, with wild surprise. “First an angel, now a human,” Michael says, and after a moment’s hesitation walks towards Dee. “To think we underestimated the power of the first tempter…” She reaches out a hand to Dee. “No matter, Heaven’s light will set her right.”

But when she touches Dee it’s not with the blinding power of an archangel. Dee gasps, then goes, “Oh, I understand.”

“What just—how did you—that’s impossible, you shouldn’t—” Michael stumbles back as Dee reaches for her. “You’re no human.”

“I’m awake now,” Dee says. “Can I show you?” She blinks, long, and when she opens her eyes again she does so with brilliant wings unfurling behind her. Suddenly, she looks nothing like a preteen girl and far more ethereal.

“Holy shit,” Crowley says from somewhere very far away.

“I remember the way it used to be before, Michael,” Dee says, and her voice is not her own. It’s something deeper, older, and familiar. “Heaven used to be glorious, at one point. Even after God left us sitting at Her feet we could love each other.”

“Dee,” Aziraphale breathes.

“Your friend has some of the same questions,” Dee says, looking at Sandalphon who gapes, taking a step back. “Heaven has always been made of dissenters. How else could the Fall occur?”

“Who are you?” Uriel says, mouth agape.

Dee smiles. “I’m still Dee,” she says, her voice back to normal. “One of your old friends just hangs around sometimes. He says hi.”

“An angel?” Sandalphon manages, and anxiously glances around the room.

“We were so excited to see humanity grow,” Dee says, voice gone deep again. “Do you remember, Mic?”

“…Raphael?” Michael says, her voice uncharacteristically small. Every other angel in the room turns to look at her.

Dee laughs in that deep, kind voice. “It’s been a while,” she says, and her eyes glow a warm blue for a moment. “Thought you could get rid of me.”

“You died,” Uriel says, and their voice is shaking a bit. “We were told you were killed by demons.”

“Not quite,” Dee says, smiling wryly. “Metratron expelled me from Heaven, but I’ve been grateful to find a line of receptive hosts. Amazing who practices magic these days.”

“Holy shit,” Crowley says again.

“I do not wish our reunion to be a quarrelsome one,” Dee says, deadly serious again. “But I will fight for Earth with whatever Heavenly powers I have left.”

“But,” Michael says, helplessly.

“God’s will,” Uriel finishes for her. “The Almighty commanded the war be commenced one way or another.”

“You know as well as I do that She has left us on our own,” Dee says in Raphael’s voice. “I’m sorry, love. Her silence hurts all of us.”

“Don’t say such things about Her,” Uriel says, whirling towards Dee. “Why should we trust you after all this time?”

“Metatron has told me She was unwilling to speak to me for millennia,” Michael says blankly. “Raphael, please, has She truly abandoned us?”

“I fear you must simply trust me. It is a long wait for answers to be freely given,” Dee says, not unkindly. She smiles gently at Michael, and then speaks in her own voice. “Besides, it’s not so bad to make your own decisions.”

“Gabriel,” Sandalphon blurts, visibly flustered when everyone turns to him. “Gabriel must know about this. He must be leading us.”

“No, he’s just as lost! Gabriel’s terrified of making decisions without the Plan,” Aziraphale exclaims. “I know you think I am—useless or indoctrinated or what have you, but I’ve been on Earth for—ah, a very long time, and I’ve learned a thing or two about free will.”

“So,” Uriel says slowly, taking everything with slow judgement. “Your plan here is to… to convince us—”

“No plan! No convincing,” Aziraphale sighs, and the angel holding him relaxes the tight hold on him slightly. “Please, Uriel, you can’t tell me that Heaven hasn’t corrupted itself since Eden. We can make it right. We can help people again.”

Somewhere in that the angel holding Crowley down must let him go because he pulls himself to his feet.

“I’m sorry, archangels,” the angel says, “I’m… going back to Heaven.”

The other angel makes eye contact with him, and lets Aziraphale go, looking about the shop as if seeing it for the first time. They both take a step towards the door, but with franticness Sandalphon grabs them both and they disappear.

Michael swears.

“Watch it,” Crowley says, nodding towards Dee.

“Fine,” Michael says. “Fine. Apparently, Gabriel’s been… indisposed and—we’ll send you a memo for a meeting, Aziraphale. And— Raphael.”

And then both Michael and Uriel are gone as well.

“Well,” Aziraphale says in the dawning silence, lips pursed like he’s trying to pin down a smile. “That went down like a lead balloon.”

“I don’t get it,” Dee says through Crowley’s laughter. Aziraphale puts a hand in her hair, a gentle caress.

“Just an old joke.”

That night is quiet.

Aziraphale sits at the bookshop desk for a long time, holding a book, unseeing. It’s been hours since the angels left the shop, but he still feels adrenaline running hot and quick in his veins. It feels impossible to be out of danger. After so long all they had to do was… nothing.

Not so different from the last time.

It’s not long before Crowley comes back downstairs from where he was putting Dee to bed. She had been remarkably calm after everything, waving off their concern. Apparently Raphael had gone back to sleep after the angels had left.

“He said he’s pretty worn out,” Dee says, shrugging, as if she’s talking about a pet dog instead of an archangel of Heaven. “He apologizes for giving me weird powers. All the angel stuff made our connection all wonky.”

“Right,” Crowley says, putting a hand to his face. “Of course.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, tone purposely light. “Possession is a difficult trick to pull, dear.”

Then Dee had demands that they get pizza before she expired of hunger, because Aziraphale and Crowley had evidently failed to find dinner the last time. Neither of them are quite sure what to say to her, making awkward attempts at non-apocalypse conversation that just makes her laugh. After their food arrives in a miraculous amount of time and Dee devours half of it in mere moments.

“You gonna eat any?” She shrugs when neither of them takes up on her offer, and she’s stumbling upstairs before either of them can figure out what to say. She does stop to give them both a hug, which Aziraphale receives with vague surprise.

“They move so fast,” Aziraphale says, sat at the table with the remains of the pizza Dee left behind. “The humans.”

“She’s lived an interesting life,” Crowley says. “I guess… angels and possession and the like is not so far out of her lived wheelhouse.”

“Good grief,” Aziraphale says, putting his head in his hands. He almost doesn’t want to speak of it aloud, but he’s long past the point where he cares about what Heaven thinks. “Raphael? Exiled?”

“Never did like that Metatron bastard,” Crowley says. “A bit too uptight for me.”

“Foolish of me to be surprised, really,” Aziraphale grouses, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Oh, come on, give me this,” Crowley says, stretching luxuriously in his chair. “If I ever get a told-you-so it’s now.” He smugly retrieves the prophecy from his pocket, and places it on the greasy table between them.

“Oh, tosh,” Aziraphale says, but he smiles nevertheless. He picks up the prophecy, running his thumb over the indents in the paper. “It’s our new life, then?”

“Well,” Crowley says, held in a long moment, heavy with things unsaid. “Yeah, kinda.”

“How would you like to celebrate, my dear?” Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way Crowley’s eyes flicker about his face, but it does make him smile.

“Alcohol,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers to make the kitchen spotless and to send to wineglasses obediently dancing into the back room. “It’s been ages, and this wine isn’t waiting for you, angel.”

(When Aziraphale catches up to him he hasn’t taken a single sip.)

It only takes Aziraphale two glasses to get the courage to ask Crowley to stay. He feels the thud in his chest nevertheless.

“Of course,” Crowley says, looking at him askance. “I had no plans to leave.”

Anathema stops by the shop for a visit in the morning. She’s smiling, something sly, when Aziraphale opens the door.

“No apocalypse, then?”

Aziraphale looks behind his shoulder as if angels or demons are going to burst from the bookshelves. Crowley snorts at him.

“Ah, no, sorry,” Aziraphale stutters. “I suppose I might’ve called, or, ah, mentioned that some things had transpired and well—“

“Apocalypse is canceled again,” Crowley cuts in, coming around Aziraphale’s left side. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Well, something surely happened,” Anathema says, letting herself into the shop. “I could sense it from Tadfield.”

“How strange,” Aziraphale says slowly. “I can’t think of what…”

“The more annoying the angel the more obvious the glow,” Crowley says, receiving Aziraphale’s bland look with grace. “As I always say.”

“Come to think of it, you’re both looking strange,” Anathema says, leaning right into Crowley’s space. He scowls down at her, leaning away. “What happened to you?”

“Oh. Well,” Aziraphale says, wringing his hands. “We’re not sure, exactly, is the thing.”

“Your auras look, well—normal,” Anathema says. After Crowley squirmed out of her immediate sight she moved to Aziraphale, tilting her head as she gazed at him. “Well, no, you’re still obviously a demon and angel, but different.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?” Crowley says and Aziraphale elbows him.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says, frowning back at him. “It’s like you’re something in between now. Something entirely new.”

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale says, but judging by Crowley’s frown he doesn’t much agree. He just barely manages to slink away before they’re deep in discussing magical theory. In Crowley’s time away he’d grown to be very well read on the subject.

She doesn’t have much other business in London other than checking up on Aziraphale and Crowley, so after a few minutes of chatter and Aziraphale thanking her she’s out the door with a promise to see them again for tea soon.

“It’ll be on me,” Aziraphale says as she’s leaving the shop. “I owe you far too many favors.”

“I don’t think I can owe favors to an angel,” she says, smiling.

Aziraphale laughs. “I don’t think I’m much of that anymore.”

Anathema says her goodbyes, and Aziraphale locks the shop behind her. He’s double checks the sign says that they’re closed, but he checks again just to be sure. Crowley’s got an indiscernible expression on his face, sulking in the desk chair, and if he’s honest Aziraphale is truly not ready to face any customers yet.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Yes, yeah, I mean—“ Crowley stops, halfway through a thought before he visibly changes track. “If that—whatever we did changed us am I—what if demon summoning doesn’t work on me anymore?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, his eyes catching on the lines of anxiety on Crowley’s face. “Well. Only one way to check.”

Aziraphale’s a being of love. He can feel the burst of gratitude even after he’s shuffled out of the room. He’s also gotten rather good at reading Crowley over the years, and it doesn’t escape his notice that when he returns with candles and chalk that he’s gone tense with fear.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says, even as he puts everything down on the desk. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Crowley says. “I need to.” He sits still as a statue as Aziraphale sets up the circle, eyes darting nervously when he lights the candles.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, and is less than emboldened by Crowley’s shaky nod. “I promise if anything goes wrong I’ll be here.”

Crowley gives him a smile that’s more dead than alive. “I know,” he says. “Go on then. Do the ritual.”

They’re both holding their breath when Aziraphale reads out the passage to summon Crowley, and they continue to hold it even after the room has fallen into a ringing silence. The candles flicker, but nothing happens. Nothing continues to happen.

“Do you think it worked?” Aziraphale whispers, looking askance to where Crowley’s still hunched in a chair, expecting a sudden and abrupt teleportation.

“Take note, because this will be the only time I ever mean this,” Crowley says, sighing a deep breath of relief. “Thank God.”

Despite everything what Aziraphale finds the most challenging is acclimating to their new normal.

Anathema and Newt kindly adopt Dee into their home so that she can live a more rounded, supported childhood in Tadfield, but every time either of them visits London Dee comes and visit the bookshop. It means Dee’s around a rather lot, popping in and out as she goes, and while it never fails to make Crowley happy there’s a part of him that’s kept on edge.

If he’s truly honest it’s not just Dee. He watches Crowley sneak around, wary and anxious, like he’s being watched. He’ll jump sometimes, at seemingly nothing, and other times he’ll snap and bite his way through one sided arguments.

But Crowley’s home, after all. This is the new normal. It’s just also a normal that also requires Aziraphale to speak in a council of angels who once tried to have him burned alive. Aziraphale is just grateful that Raphael has been a powerful ally after being granted access to Heaven again.

Today is not the first day where Aziraphale can see only Gabriel’s rueful, sneering face behind his eyelids the whole trip home.

Once the door to the bookshop is closed Aziraphale sighs. The trip to and from heaven isn’t strenuous per se, but it’s a long trek, one that stirs up something unsettled deep in him. Predictably, Crowley is on him immediately, swooping in from wherever he was waiting to meet him at the door.

“Hey, angel,” he greets, aiming for nonchalant and missing endearingly. As it has been the last few times Aziraphale’s left for heaven Crowley’s hair is disheveled, mussed from anxious fingers. “Has it cleared up out there at all? There’s this tea shop Anathema told me about and with all this rain we may as well have the whole place to ourselves.”

Aziraphale gives him a small smile. What a darling thing, and it’s a thought he’s had increasingly often. “Yes, tea sounds lovely,” he says, “It was a rather… trying day.”

“Fuck them,” Crowley grouses, his mouth contorting into something like a snarl only held back for Aziraphale’s sake. “They’ve got a lot of nerve, and if you ever let me back up there I’ll let them know it.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, his lovely, waspish darling of a demon. “I’m sure you would,” Aziraphale says generously, grabbing one of Crowley’s fidgeting hands. “It’s just slow progress and all that. Always fixed with tea.”

“Right,” Crowley says, eyes flickering about and then away, to just the left of Aziraphale’s ear. “Good, great, I’ll get ready then.” He doesn’t move away, though. Aziraphale sighs, looking at their conjoined hands.

“Crowley, I think we need to—“

“Oh, you’re back, Aziraphale!” Dee says, and Crowley jumps away from him like he’s been burned. Dee just blinks at him before giving Aziraphale a smile. “Shorter than last time, at least.”

“Hello, Dee,” Aziraphale says, returning the smile. It’s easy to turn away from Crowley’s fidgeting. After everything, they’re back to dodging around each other. He tucks his hands close to him, feeling distinctly cold. “Yes, but it’s still a relief to be home.”

“I’m not jealous,” Dee says, “I had one of them in my head. I can’t imagine what it’s like to re-educate someone like that.”

“It’s not…” Aziraphale starts weakly, “It’s a negotiation.”

“Still,” Dee says gently, then as a concession, “Tell Raphael hi for me next time you’re up there. And thank you.”

“He sends his best wishes,” Aziraphale says. “He’s a great help, but perhaps having a bit too much fun spelling chaos.”

“Have no idea who that sounds like,” Dee says, smiling at Crowley who rolls his eyes.

“We’re headed out for tea,” Crowley says, and after a moment’s hesitation marches right by Aziraphale. “Right—we’ll be back later, sometime, y’know how it is, just have the run of the place and call if you need anything.” He kisses the top of Dee’s head and then he’s off, bumbling elsewhere in the shop.

“What’s up with him?”

Aziraphale puts a hand to his head. “Today is just a day for difficult talks, is all.”

Dee smiles wryly. She’s gotten a lot keener on him in the last few months, edges a bit more dulled. Aziraphale’s not quite ready to admit it, but he’s finding he quite likes her. It’s nice to know there’s another on his side.

“Good luck,” is all she says, but he’s been on this Earth for long enough to know that it means a lot more than that. He gives her a grateful nod, and then ducks outside to where Crowley’s waiting by the Bentley.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says when Crowley opens the door for him. But when they get in the car it’s a silent drive all the way there, Aziraphale watching something build in Crowley’s head. By now he knows to just wait. It isn’t until they’re haphazardly parked on the side of the road that Crowley speaks.

“Angel,” Crowley says, putting the car in park with a bit too much force. “I know you feel obligated or whatever,” he says, waving a flippant hand, “but you don’t owe those wankers a single thing, and if they’re putting you through the ringer then don’t go back.”

Aziraphale blinks. That’s not what he was expecting. “Oh,” Aziraphale says, “Well, yes. I know.” He’s quiet for a moment, but Crowley doesn’t interrupt him. “It’s not an—an obligation, per se, it’s—it feels right to do this work it’s just that, oh, Crowley,” he breaks off, looking to Crowley. “It’s terrible listening to them quibble about God’s prophecies and such when they are so blind to the suffering around them.”

“That’s why you’re there,” Crowley says, and with the glasses Aziraphale can’t tell where he’s looking. “To set ‘em right.”

Aziraphale gives him a small smile. “You give me too much credit, dear,” he says. “Heaven’s, well—it’s always been easy to believe I’ve been missing something, as I often have.”

“You’re not,” Crowley says, “You haven’t.”

Aziraphale worries his lip. “I rather think I have.” He hesitates, wondering, for almost a moment long enough that he decides not to ask. Almost. “Can I ask you something, dear?”

“Anything, angel.”

“Why did you leave that morning?” Aziraphale asks, watching the people walking through London instead of seeing whatever kind of expression Crowley is giving him. “It was the last time I saw you before—before you—“

“Yes,” Crowley hisses tightly. “I know.” Aziraphale can’t manage to look at him, but he can’t manage to regret asking either.

“I need to know,” Aziraphale manages when the silence stretches so long to be uncomfortable. “What I did to drive you away.”

“Fuck,” Crowley swears, wrenching off his glasses. He presses a hand to his eyes in a gesture of frustration that Aziraphale feels is unnecessary this early in the conversation. “Nothing, angel.”

“I shan’t be angry, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I do not want any unfinished conversations to linger now that you are dealing with—“ he stops. His gaze flickers to Crowley who’s studiously staring ahead and lets some things go unsaid.

Crowley sighs. “There’s—it’s nothing. Noting to be angry about,” Crowley says shortly. “I’m sorry for leaving, truly, I am. There wasn’t a day where I didn’t miss you, I swear it.”

“Can you tell me why, dear?” Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s arm, who glances at him for just a moment, eyes wide and panicked. “I am tired of scaring you.”

“You’re not _scaring_ me,” Crowley sputters, gesturing broadly enough to shake Aziraphale’s arm off. “Look, let’s just have a good time. Tea fixes all ails and whatnot, right? Come on, it’s getting late and—“

“If you don’t wish to tell me that’s fine,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s hand freezes on the door handle. “I just need you to know I love you, and I want to work through anything that might damage our relationship.”

“Our,” Crowley’s voice cracks, “Relationship?”

Aziraphale smiles hesitantly, and despite everything he is totally unprepared when Crowley whirls towards him, his face a mask of shock. “Ah,” Aziraphale says. “Platonic or otherwise, but I perhaps hoped otherwise, considering all the, ah, you know,” Aziraphale waves a hand around vaguely, frowning when Crowley’s expression of shock doesn’t dissipate. “Oh, come now; don’t tell me after all the times I’ve asked you to stay and what have you that you’re surprised.”

“Bloody hell,” Crowley sputters, “It’s—it’s not as if you were obvious— all this hand holding and touching or whatever, sure, but it’s not—you love me?”

“Of course I love you,” Aziraphale says, his voice a bit weak. “What did you think that last night was?”

“I—I don’t know,” Crowley manages. “You were talking about Falling, angel, I thought—I thought you were scared.”

“I was scared.”

Crowley runs an anxious hand through his hair, mussing it up even further than before. “I thought you were going to do something you regret.”

“So you stayed out of pity?” It’s meaner than he means it to be. He’s just finding it harder to keep it together the longer this conversation goes on.

“No!” Crowley says. “Of course not. I _wanted_ to stay. I left before you could use me as inspiration to Fall.”

“I wasn’t— I didn’t _want_ to fall.”

“Didn’t you?” Crowley says a bit sharply, and then sighs, putting his face in his hands. “Aziraphale, I couldn’t live with myself if you Fell because of me. I was putting you in danger. Maybe I still am.”

“But, dear,” Aziraphale says, taking one of Crowley’s hands into his own. He squeezes it, gentle. “You saved me from Falling, remember?”

“I don’t know what I did,” Crowley hisses, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I don’t care,” Aziraphale says, kissing the back of Crowley’s hand. His fingers twitch in response. “I lost you for over a decade. I’m keeping you as close as you’ll have me.”

Crowley worries his lip. “But with Heaven’s council—they can’t possibly approve of you loving a demon.” Without his sunglasses he’s so expressive, so open.

“As you might say, _fuck_ them. You’ve seen what happens when people try to keep me away,” Aziraphale says over Crowley’s startled laughter. “I gave away the sword, so it might be a bit more challenging, but…”

“I did always love that about you,” Crowley says, smiling. He clearly revels in saying the words, grinning from ear to ear. “Does that make this a date?”

Aziraphale’s laughter is a relief, a sound that makes them both relax out of the tension that rose in them. “Yes, alright,” Aziraphale says. “I think we have a lot to talk about when we get home, but yes, my love, we’re far overdue for a date.”

Aziraphale spent over three hundred years in London and it wasn’t until him and Crowley started watching over the Dowling boy that it begun to feel lived in. See, he spent every free stolen moment with Crowley, squirreled away to enjoy in parks and museums and little quirky cafés that made Aziraphale’s heart burst with joy. 

Every day he walked without Crowley he saw their ghosts by his side. A memory, here, there, drifting in and out of his mind. It was what made London so difficult to traverse with Crowley gone. It still happens, sometimes, a vague squeeze of his heart at the sight of a place long since visited. But now, now he has Crowley to return to.

And now, again, he has Crowley to make new memories. It’s no surprise that Aziraphale suggests a little vacation.

“You’re never going to get any customers ever again,” Crowley scoffs, but he’s smiling. “You haven’t been open for more than a month in actual _years_.”

“As it should be,” Aziraphale says primly. “Fewer chances for people to buy my books.”

“Then I may just have to keep you away forever,” Crowley says, pretending he doesn’t start to blush.

“Oh, such a salacious demon you are,” Aziraphale teases, kissing Crowley’s flushed cheek.

They spend months together in the South Downs together, unbothered. Hell doesn’t contact them, and with Raphael’s help Heaven’s meetings begin to make progress. If asked, all Aziraphale cares about is the fact that he now gets to spend every night with Crowley. And every morning.

There are moments where Crowley is drawn and distant with a pain he doesn’t have the words to speak of. There is time where Aziraphale spends frustrated and angry trying to convince the angels understand and respect humanity. There are plenty of long hours spent where neither of them can understand each other, back to anxiously edging around each other, unable to talk.

But there is a night in December where they sit in the cold winter air and stare up at the stars, their warm breaths barely visible in the moonlight. They sit close, warm points connecting them, hip, shoulder, hand. And when they kiss beneath the stars there is no one, nor nothing that could ever stop them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, that's a wrap. to be entirely honest with you, i have never finished something this long, so regardless of how this story actually turned out i'm really proud of the fact i wrote 30k without giving up on it.
> 
> thanks so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed. <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


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